


it's raining somewhere else

by PinkHydrangea



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia, Fire Emblem: Shin Monshou no Nazo | Fire Emblem: New Mystery of the Emblem
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Past Relationship(s), Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, au where Nyna is murdered by Medeus so this is a Bad Timeline and Shadow Dragon never happens, i would tag Nyna but she's pretty much just here as a ghost and that doesn't seem right, this is what im calling by the seashore-adjacent so pls check that fic out too!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2019-11-28 03:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 29,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18202622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkHydrangea/pseuds/PinkHydrangea
Summary: Year 604 (Archanean Calendar)In the land of Archanea, revolution is silenced. King Medeus of Dolhr conquers the continent and claims the Shield of Seals and the Falchion, ending any and all rebellion. General Camus of Grust, after failing to protect his lover, Princess Nyna, flees with his young prince and princess for the land of Valentia—a place where he hopes to secure their safety. Upon finding them a home in Zofia, he discards his name and takes up the life of a mercenary, seeking to mourn his love in solitude.Year 398 (Valentian Calendar)In the land of Valentia, war is brewing. Desperate in the midst of a famine, Rigel crosses borders, breaking Duma and Mila’s Divine Accord. Vicious Terrors begin to terrorize the people. In the chaos on the Rigelian side of the border, brigands raze the bountiful plains. A young village cleric by the name of Tatiana, mourning a recent loss of her own, struggles to help her people through hunger and injury. A difficult solution presents itself to her alone—and yet for Tatiana, there is no cost is too high.Year 399 (Valentian Calendar)Outside the walls of her quiet Rigelian village, a young cleric finds a wounded mercenary.





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> i have a problem
> 
> but UHHHHHH this is a fic i've been planning for a while!! it was originally just going to sit in my google drive but i came up with some good solid directions for it so here we are. the concept of disgraced knight Camus becoming a sellsword wandering Valentia actually came from Octopath Traveler bc. he and Olberic share a VA and i have no self-control.
> 
> the idea further developed as i considered what effects Nyna's death would have on the Archanean story, since Nyna is honestly the most vital character to getting the events of the story moving, in my opinion. Nyna is the catalyst that causes so many of the events in Shadow Dragon that it’s virtually impossible for anything to go right without her, hence the Bad Timeline. without Nyna’s escape from the kingdom of Archanea, the Fire Emblem would’ve fallen into Medeus’ hands, the revolution would not have started, Marth would’ve had nowhere to meet up, etc. so basically everyone is kinda just. screwed over without Nyna because she's arguably as important as Marth in the story
> 
> in any case, this is a super long first chapter because i wanted to get it set up and didn't want to take like uhhhhh 4 chapters getting Camus out of Archanea so. I Am So Sorry
> 
>  
> 
> **IMPORTANT THINGS TO NOTE PRIOR TO READING:**
> 
> this fic is what i am calling _by the seashore-_ adjacent, meaning that it's not quite aligned with that fic enough for me to insert it into a series, but it's related enough that i strongly suggest reading the fic [here,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11167452/chapters/24926727) as the fic does use OCs from that fic, and more importantly, character backgrounds and the like, which is extremely valuable for Tatiana over anything else because. intsys didn't give her a backstory so i made one. i wouldn't say it's necessary to have it all read before you take the first few chapters for a spin, but i'd strongly recommend it!!

It reeks in the Holy Kingdom of Archanea.

When Camus returns, it reeks like death and ruin. The sky is still blue, though, and he finds that the white roses are still blooming. Yet, he finds the putrid scent lingering thick in his nose, deep in his throat, as he makes his way through the streets of Pales. It’s disgusting, foul, and he cannot breathe.

He knows why it smells of death, even if he does not want to know.

The guards open the gates of the Millenium Court for him, each offering him a polite, “General Camus.” He ignores them as he marches through the white-cobblestone courtyard.

It’s clear to him he’s been deceived, and also clear that he has realized as much too late. The fatality of his own error makes his heart pound in his chest. He knows, he knows, because he thinks he _felt_ it, the very second they harmed her. His hope that he is wrong is little, and he feels, more than anything, angry. Angry, and his hands are shaking.

He strides past Reiden, who stands diligently at the entrance to the palace. His officer falls into step with him, but is quickly left behind. It doesn’t stop him from calling after, “Captain, how do the prince and princess fare? Sir?”

Roberto is leaned up against a wall, fiddling with something in his hands. He sputters out, “Sir, I- Sir!” when Camus passes. As usual, he is far from eloquent with his words. The tone of his voice says everything, though. Camus wishes he did not hear that note of panic.

And then there is Belf, standing guard right at the entrance to the throne room. Belf, with white skin and big, frightened eyes as soon as he sees Camus coming. He opens his mouth and a desperate string of, “I tried, I tried to do something, oh gods, I tried to help her, but I couldn’t-!” comes out.

Camus stops in front of Belf and stares up at the large, silver doors. He regards them for a moment, his heart in his throat, and then replies with only, “Aside.” Belf scrambles to open the doors for him.

He steps into the dim light, and there is a coffin in the throne room.

The blood in Camus’ body goes freezing cold. He feels the back of his knees begin to weaken, and he so nearly falls to them. The coffin is grand—at the least, they afforded her this dignity, this white marble, this gold, these gemstones. It sits there, heavy and final in the middle of the throne room, and it consumes so much of his being in that moment that he barely notices that there is anyone else with him. He doesn’t pay them any mind. He keeps his eyes on the coffin, but doesn’t approach it. His legs are numb. His fingertips are cold. There is a pounding in his head and a fierce burning behind his eyes.

That feeling he’d had in Khaedin, that ice-cold feeling that something in the world was suddenly _wrong,_ had been all too right.

Nyna. Nyna. Nyna.

Camus struggles to breathe.

“General Camus of Grust.”

It’s then that he snaps his eyes up from the coffin to the throne: an intricate white seat atop a dais. The strongest seat of power in the entirety of Archanea. The place where he had hoped Nyna would one day sit, victorious in her revolution.

Instead, Medeus sits atop it.

Gharnef is notably missing, but there are other people surrounding Medeus: A few Dolhrian generals whose names he doesn’t quite know, King Michalis of Macedon, King Jiol of Gra, and, lastly, his own king. Ludwik is standing quite still next to the arm of the Archanean throne, and the man— _coward, bastard, craven_ —will not look at Camus at all. He stands next to the much younger Michalis, looking so much older than he did only a few years ago when this all started.

Camus has no pity. Camus has a sword hanging at his side, and he wants to drive it through Medeus before turning it on Ludwik. Camus wants revenge for his lover, and he wants it now.

But he doesn’t move. How can he? He still has the children to think of. It was only a week ago he was still with them, comforting them as they held to him, crying and terrified of going back into the dark as soon as he left. If he acts wrong… Camus doesn’t know if he can cope with two more coffins. The singular one in the center of the room, fifteen feet away, already makes him want to double over and puke.

It’s too sudden. Too fast. Camus wonders how the world can crumble so quickly.

“Boy.” Medeus’ voice booms throughout the dim throne room. Camus snaps his head up, looks away from the coffin—Nyna’s coffin, Nyna’s coffin, oh _gods_ —and brings his gaze to Medeus. His ashen skin stands as a stark contrast to the glimmering diamonds. He’s looking down at him, eyes cold even from a distance, with a clawed finger stroking at his cheek in an interested gesture. “General Camus, you’ve always been such an eloquent man. Whatever is the matter?”

Monster. Monster. Monster. As if he didn’t know. As if he doesn’t know that Camus’ throat is closed up. As if he doesn’t know that if Camus opens his mouth and tries to speak, naught but a scream will come out.

“You bring news of Ludwik’s offspring, don’t you?” Medeus cocks his head, leaning it into the curve of his hand. His other rests on the arm of the throne. “Don’t keep a father waiting, Camus of Grust.”

Camus opens his mouth, then shuts it. He licks his lips, closes his eyes. He tries to compose himself, but it’s hard. It’s hard, too, to not look at the elegant coffin, nor the smirking Dolhrian generals. He takes a deep breath once, twice, and then a step forward as he lowers himself into a bow. Elegant, refined, never panicked, as everyone expects of Camus of Grust. His cloak falls around him, his hair spilling over his shoulder. He stares at the marble of the floor, acutely aware of the eyes on him. He brings his eyes up to Ludwik after the appropriate amount of time and says, “Your children, sire, fare pitifully.”

Ludwik flinches away. He’s old and shriveled now, but Ludwik was never a warrior king. He never had much of a reason to lift a sword, not when the Sable Knights were always there to rid Grust of every problem. Every problem, that is, until Dolhr stepped over their borders and made them into their own personal fools.

“Oh?” Medeus smiles despite his next words. “Are the children not thriving in their conditions? I tried to afford them the best luxuries I could, after all.”

A Dolhrian general—a manakete—chuckles and hides his face in a green, scaled hand.

Camus straightens up and takes another step forward, but moving even that one step closer to Nyna’s coffin makes him feel as though he’s been gutted. He stands in place, weak-kneed and mildly dazed, and clenches a fist to keep himself grounded. His voice rises. “Your young children sit in Dolhr’s captivity, and have for nearly two years now. They sit in a dark room every day, with naught to do but to read the same three books over and over. They are not afforded any baths. They are not given proper food. They are wasting away! And whose fault do you presume this to be, _Your Majesty?”_

Ludwik turns his eyes down. Camus knows that Ludwik has never been paternal; not every man is made to be a father. The king is aged, nearing his mid-60s, and only has his young children after decades of the court hounding him to produce an heir. Camus marvels at how simple things can be for royalty—that Ludwik could just pick a lively mistress from a group of volunteers, have a set of twins, and leave it at that. Camus doesn’t know if Ludwik remembers their favorite foods, their favorite books, their favorite lesson subjects, or even their birthdays. It’s clear, and always has been, that he does not truly love his children. And yet, he looks guilty.

It makes Camus sick.

“Well, they’re not dead,” King Jiol says. It’s a dispassionate response, and Camus doesn’t know what he expected from this bastard of a man, who would waste his days away bedding any woman he so pleased prior to the war. He’s infamously heartless, and only proves this further with, “I’m just glad this is all over with now. The pesky Archanean princess is over and done with.”

A choked, agonized sound leaves Camus, and his hand is on his sword before he can stop himself. The room bursts into a frenzy as Ludwik and Jiol stumble back. King Michalis appears delighted and easily hefts the Hauteclere at his side up with a single hand. Previously unseen guards burst from the shadows at the edges of the room, shouting and pointing their spears at him. The Dolhrian generals bristle beneath their cloaks, and Camus can just barely make out the glint of their dragonstones as they pull them from their pockets. He can hear his blood roaring in his ears over the clamor of everyone’s shouting and pounding footsteps, and he knows. He knows he can take them.

“Silence, all of you!”

It’s amazing how instantaneously the clamor stops when Medeus speaks. The manaketes slink back to Medeus’ side, teeth still bared. The guards freeze in place and dutifully retreat back to the shadows. Jiol and Ludwik readjust their finery and draw themselves up to their full heights. Camus swears he sees Michalis shrug, almost amusedly, before dropping Hauteclere back down to his side with an echoing thud. Camus himself, however, keeps his hand on the pommel of his sword, shaking as he crashes down from the burst of adrenaline. He finds himself looking to the coffin once more.

She’s gone.

Really, truly, she is gone. He will never hear her voice again, and- and whose fault is it? Whose fault is it that he will never again take a meal with her? Whose fault is it that he will never again play another game of chess with her? Whose fault is it that he will never card his fingers through her hair again? Whose fault is it that he will never debate with her again? Whose fault is that never, ever, will Camus again bask in her radiance?

“General Camus.” Medeus frowns at him and nods. “Take your hand off your sword, or I will personally dispose of you.”

 _Do it,_ Camus wants to say. _Just do it. Kill me however you killed her. Let me follow her to whatever afterlife you sent her to. Take my head and spear it on the pikes of the castle gates,_ the way he let his men string up the bodies of the Archanean royalty so long ago. _Just kill me and put me out of my misery. Don’t let me live without her. Don’t let me._

But Camus remembers the children. How their lives hinge upon his actions. He takes a shuddering breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and peels his fingers away from the blade.

“Obedient dog, as always.” Medeus steeples his fingers together and scans the room. He looks healthier than he did the last time Camus saw him a few months ago. A few years younger. More alive. “You make such good decisions, General Camus. I do like you quite well, my boy.”

Camus doesn’t know where to look: Medeus, the coffin, the floor. Nothing feels right.

“I’m very glad you took the opportunity to go visit your prince and princess when I extended it to you.” Medeus leans back in the throne, eyebrows quirked and an amused smile on his thin lips. “I know how much you… _respected_ Princess Nyna. It would have been a shame if you had to watch me sever her head from her body.”

Camus stumbles backwards, but only a little bit. Just the tiniest step away from the coffin, where he now knows Nyna’s decapitated body lies. He wants to be sick. He wants to- to do something. He doesn’t know exactly what. He’s processing this all too fast—or is he processing it too slow? Has he really processed it at all? Has he come to terms with the fact that there is no more waking up next to her, no more taboo kisses to be stolen in the shadows of the palace? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t. He just doesn’t.

“You told me they needed me.” Camus lifts his hands to his head and sinks his fingers into his hair, clutching at it until his scalp hurts. His heart thumps against his ribcage. His breathing keeps trying to come out quick and fast. He hurts. “You told me that they _needed_ me. That I had to go see them right then.”

“They did need you,” Medeus shoots back. “You said yourself they were in poor conditions, that they were just sitting in a dark room. Do you not think your visit brought them hope?”

Camus swallows. They did need him, that was for certain. But did they need him more than Nyna did? If he had known Medeus was planning on swooping in to abduct her, to _kill_ her, he would’ve stayed. He would have done everything in his power to help her escape; he could have taken her to Aurelis, maybe. Prince Hardin is honorable, and one of the faces of the revolution. Nyna would have been safe there, under his care. He could have gotten her there, if only Medeus hadn’t played him for a fool and used the children against him.

Gods. Gods, they fooled him so easily. They played him like a fiddle. He really thought that he could just _leave_ for a few weeks to visit Khaedin and check on the children? That he could just leave Nyna in the care of his men, and all would be well? A month ago feels like an eternity, and he wonders how he didn’t suspect anything. Was he really so single-minded? So simple? So easy to read?

“Well.” Medeus stands from the throne and starts to descend from the dais. His boots clack against the marble flooring, and he comes to stand in front of the coffin. He puts one hand atop it and gives it a pat. “She is over and done with, and you need not worry about her anymore, General Camus. You did well to keep her contained these past couple of years. I will find some way to personally reward you for your outstanding work.” Medeus’ lips quirk up into another thin smile. “I must admit, though. Sometimes it seemed less like you were keeping her prisoner, and more like you were actually trying to _protect_ her from me. What a silly thing for me to think, no?”

There’s bile rising up in his throat.

“All’s well that ends well.” Medeus drags his hand over the lid of the coffin. “Is it not?”

“Are you-” Camus grits his teeth as the burning behind his eyes becomes ever stronger. “Are you going to bury her, Lord Medeus?”

Medeus pats the coffin again and shakes his head. “Oh, dear boy, we already did.”

His stomach drops to the floor, and he looks up, bewildered, at Medeus.

“I executed her two weeks ago, General Camus. I don’t fancy having a rotting corpse lying around my palace. We buried her immediately; Princess Nyna never did anything to me personally but exist. I at least owed her the dignity of burying her with her family.” Medeus pauses. “Or, at least, what is left of them, after you let your army tear them to shreds like beasts. Once you were done lopping their heads off first, I mean.”

“I-” Camus can’t find any words. Medeus is smiling at him. “I- The coffin- Why-?”

Medeus turns his back to Camus and faces the dais again, his fingertips brushing the coffin as his hand leaves it. “Oh, General Camus.

“I only wanted to see the look on your face when you realized she was truly gone.”

* * *

* * *

It’s raining.

The sky was so blue hours before, and now it’s raining, as though nature itself is mourning the loss of Princess Nyna of Archanea. Camus can see the royal cemetery from his room, and he hates that he can pick out a new headstone that wasn’t there when he left for Khaedin. He can’t bring himself to go visit it; he feels sick thinking about standing atop her body, rotting in the earth already. He doesn’t deserve to be in the presence of her family, either. He’s heard their screams in his memory for the past few hours; the way Nyna’s mother howled just before he brought Gradivus to her throat. How her siblings screamed when he approached them. The sound of her lord father letting out just one, feeble cry a second before Gradivus sliced him through.

Camus stares out the window at the cemetery, hazy through the downpour, and wonders what he has done to this continent.

His coat and embellishments are all carelessly tossed upon the bed. He’s cold in only his trousers and a loose blouse, but he doesn’t know if it’s the actual temperature, or the chill that just hasn’t left his body for days. He stands there by the window, hands in his pockets, and wonders how the world can seem so normal in the face of everything that is happening to it.

In the corner of the room, he hears a humming that has become so familiar to him in the past years. He doesn’t bother turning his head away from the window to look at Gradivus. Instead, he shuts his eyes and leans forward, propping his forehead against the frigid glass as the regalia hums to life.

 _‘Where?’_ it asks.

“Pales. The Millenium Court,” Camus replies. “Did you have a good sleep?”

There’s a silence as Gradivus wakes up a little more. Whatever magic it is that gives the lance sentience, it takes a while to kick into effect every time it wakes up, no matter how short the sleep. A consequence of being over a millenia old, Camus supposes. It speaks again in a few seconds, however, and tells him, _‘Don’t like… this feeling.’_

“Hm.”

 _‘You are upset. Upset because…’_ There is another pause and a faint pressure in Camus’ temples. He grunts and shakes his head, but it’s impossible to keep Gradivus out; it has no concept of human boundaries nor comfort. It has always pried and pulled at his mind to get what it wants, since the very second it started talking to him. _‘Oh. Oh, I see.’_

The new headstone in the distance glares at Camus. He pulls a hand from his pocket and wraps it around his jaw, trembling.

 _‘You loved the princess very much… So much. Even though you fought… Even though… Sometimes she hated you…’_ Gradivus pauses, then sounds annoyed. _‘Will never… understand humans. Hate isn’t love. How can one hate… and yet love?’_

“Shut up,” Camus snaps. “Just shut up!”

_‘This is what I get… for speaking plainly? Rude. Master is always rude… To me, to the princess…’_

Camus turns from the window and stalks across the room, closing in on the weapon propped up in the corner. The red gem in its center stares lifelessly at him. It strikes him then: maybe he’s just insane. He’s entertained the possibility a few times that “Gradivus” is only his conscience, a way of coping with the war. “I have half a mind to throw you into the forge and let you melt,” Camus spits, waving a finger at it. “Be silent! You have no right to speak to me like that!”

 _‘You… have no right to speak to_ me _like that. Respect your elders.’_ Gradivus tells him coldly. _‘Master needs a lesson in respect… If only I had hands. I’d teach you to mind your manners. Fool.’_

Camus lashes out and grabs the shaft of the weapon in his hand, pulls, and promptly grunts in surprise when he finds his cannot lift the weapon. He grits his teeth and wraps his other hand around it, pulling uselessly as he hisses, “You son of a-!”

A knock comes at the door, effectively startling them both. It’s always weird, to know that a supposedly inanimate object is surprised; it’s a tingle at the back of Camus’ head that quickly dies, but that he feels regardless. The hum in his mind that appears whenever Gradivus awakens dims, and a second later, the door opens. Belf is holding it, looking quite sheepish, and King Michalis is standing in the doorway.

“Presenting King Michalis of Macedon,” Belf announces. “He- he demanded to see you, Captain. I’m sorry.”

Camus eyes Michalis, then looks to Belf. “Close the door. Thank you.”

Michalis steps in, Belf steps out. The door shuts. The rain continues to pound on the window, and, suddenly realizing how absurd he must look, Camus unwraps his hands from around Gradivus. Michalis eyes the regalia, then looks to Camus with a coy smile.

Michalis has always been striking to Camus; he recalls meeting him once or twice before the war for diplomatic purposes, when Michalis was still the prince. Camus himself is well over six feet, but even so, the man is a mountain to him. His bright red hair hangs in a silken curtain, offset by the black and gray of his clothing. His boots are tall, and the pretentiously-high heels click along the floor as he starts to pace the room, tugging at the wrists of his dark red gloves.

“So these were your quarters during the occupation.” Michalis drags his hand along a bedpost thoughtfully. “No personal touches, I see. I imagine it’s safe to say you spent much more time in Lady Nyna’s quarters, _entertaining_ her, no?”

Gradivus only budges a little when Camus reaches for it, though there is a crackling courtesy of it in the back of his mind. Gradivus is also annoyed at Michalis.

Michalis throws his hands up and rolls his eyes towards the ceiling. “Okay, fine! You don’t like anyone making comments on how you were clearly fraternizing with the enemy revolutionary. I can respect that.” He observes the room again, clearly amused, and gestures to a chess table in the corner. “I’ve already sent for some food to be sent up. I imagine you aren’t mentally-equipped for a game at the moment, but would you like to have a seat, General Camus?”

He is right that Camus isn’t in much of a mood for a game of chess, just like he isn’t in much of a mood to have to look at Michalis’ face for any more than five more seconds. Taking a meal with him isn’t appealing, either. But, Michalis outranks him; he’d be a fool to say no to a king. So, he lets go of Gradivus once more, brushes a hand through his hair, and joins Michalis at the table.

The promised food comes a few awkwardly silent minutes later, and a butler sets a tray of coffee and sandwiches on the table. After eyeing Camus for a few more seconds than necessary, he bows and leaves the room. Belf shuts the door, and there is again silence, broken only by the roll of thunder in the distance.

“Help yourself,” Michalis invites, “if you have an appetite. Allow me to fill you in on what’s happened since you’ve been off babysitting.”

Camus has no appetite. He leans back in his chair and glares silently at Michalis.

Michalis plucks up a black chess piece from the table, rolling it between his fingers as he crosses his legs. “You have been gone from Pales for a month now. From what I’ve garnered, you left immediately upon receiving word that your prince and princess required you. You went to see that they were safe—that Dolhr was holding up their end of the bargain. You didn’t expect Medeus to make a move on Pales himself in that short of time; I assume you thought he was still too weak to leave his hold. You thought the princess would be safe if left with a few of your trusted knights. Am I wrong?”

Camus looks away and leans his head against a fist, peering out the window just beyond Michalis’ head. Michalis clearly doesn’t need him to reply.

“Medeus and Gharnef, along with a few generals, arrived here a week after that. I’ve only heard the story from your men, but apparently they struck quickly and quietly. They made no big fuss about entering Pales. The country is under their hold, and has been for years now; why would they need to make a fuss to enter the country, Pales, the Millenium Court? From what I’ve heard, it was truly as simple as walking in, scooping up the princess, and taking her to the chopping block.”

He shuts his eyes and turns his head, unable to keep the mental image of Nyna, terrified and enraged, being pushed to her knees in front of Medeus. “Don’t speak of it that way,” he says quietly. “Her- her death. It can’t have been so simple. I know she wouldn’t-”

“Oh, I did hear she fought back something fierce,” Michalis agrees, like he’s just remembered the detail. “I saw the signs myself; there are burn marks in her room from whatever magic she cast. But, in the end, Princess Nyna was only a bishop of royal birth, and had little combat training. They made short work of her. Your knights were helpless; banging on the door and doing their damndest to get in, I’ve heard guards say, but they were too late. They didn’t even know Medeus and Gharnef had arrived until they had the princess. Lady Nyna had given them an hour’s break, so I’ve heard. No one could expect things to go so horribly wrong in just one hour.

“Her death was quick and painless; take comfort in that, at least. No one made her suffer. If anything, the only pain that befell her was that which she brought upon herself by struggling against Medeus and Gharnef.” Michalis leans over the table and plucks up the plate of sandwiches, holding it almost idly as he looks towards the floor. “And they… just did away with her. Medeus himself did. He afforded her that honor as a rebel leader, and afforded her the dignity of burying her with her family and giving her a grave. All in a matter of an hour, they annihilated the remaining royal Archanean lineage, and they took the Shield of Seals.”

“So it’s over,” Camus mumbles. Weary, he raises a hand when Michalis pushes the plate towards him. His stomach churns at the mere thought of eating. He feels weak and numb as he slumps further back into the chair. “No hope of resistance now. Nyna spent these past two years keeping the Shield of Seals from Medeus, and now he has it. And with it, an assured victory.”

“‘No hope of resistance?’” Michalis echoes as he sets the plate down. “Why, General Camus, you make it sound as though you were _hoping_ for rebellion against our great new leader.”

“You know what’s going to happen now,” Camus snaps. He grabs the arm of the chair, squeezing it under his grip. “Medeus and his kingdom will spread all over the continent, subduing humans, making them their subservient slaves. Just as humans did to manaketes throughout history. This place is going to become a living hell for every human who lives upon it. Second-class citizens, servants, playthings for Medeus and his people.”

“Mm.” Michalis drops his chin into an open palm. “Supposedly, our reward for being good little pawns is some form of lenience. I’m certain it will still be bad, but according to Medeus? Grust, Macedon, Gra. They’ll all be spared the worst of it.”

“Can we trust him?” It feels as though his chest is closing up. Uncomfortable, Camus sits up in his chair and places a hand on his tight chest. “What have we done to our people? I am supposed to protect them, and instead, I have given them away to suffering.”

“I think we can trust him,” Michalis replies. “He didn’t sugarcoat it; of course the humans will suffer. To subjugate humans, to rank us beneath manaketes, has been the point of his conquest. But I need to believe him.” He turns his head and looks out the window, looking very far removed from his earlier amusement. “I have no hope of standing against him. All I can hope for is that he will treat Macedon right. That he won’t harm Maria. Minerva can do whatever she so wishes, if she wants to rebel and get herself killed. I would invite her to, in fact.”

“What a perfect brother.”

“So touchy today, Camus.” Michalis’ eyes snap over to him, and he smiles in a fashion that is almost a sneer. “I like that side of you.”

“Do I seem quite in the mood to flirt?” he snaps. “Gods, just- just leave. You’ve told me everything, so just-”

“I have not.” Michalis puts his arm down and fixes him under his stare. “There is a little more to the story.”

“Well, would you get on with it so you can leave. My. Room?”

“A man goes looking for civil conversation with the only other person here on his intellectual level, and he gets snubbed so cruelly.” Michalis clicks his tongue. “Well, the rest of the story is that Gharnef is also dead.”

Camus tilts his head and leans forward in his seat, heart thumping. “Gharnef? Whom Medeus trusted so much?”

“The man stole Falchion from Jiol months ago. Medeus found out he was keeping it tucked away and looking for the perfect opportunity to use it against him. As you can imagine, uncovering a murder plot ruins the trust in a relationship; Gharnef’s death is recent. Only a few days ago. I’m sure you could still see the blood splatters on the walls, if you wanted to.”

Camus grimaces, then tucks his jaw into a hand. “I was wondering why I didn’t see him in the throne room. But I- I was so-”

“Yes, I’m sure that coffin was very distracting.” Michalis crosses his arms. “So, that is the sum of it. Princess Nyna is dead. Gharnef is dead. Medeus has the Shield of Seals and the Falchion. Nyna’s death put a quick end to the revolution; it’s in shambles, demoralized, with no center to it anymore. Medeus has the power to unseal his brethren in any case, and who would want to go up against a horde or angry, half-mad Earth Dragons?”

Camus swallows and looks down to the table, with all the untouched food. For all his pomp and circumstance, Michalis’ lack of appetite speaks to his own unease. Perhaps it was for distraction that Michalis wanted to get him alone. Whether that distraction was flirting or torture, he doesn’t know. Sometimes with Michalis, those things overlap.

“Medeus is having your prince and princess returned to Grust.”

He looks up, blinking. “Pardon?”

“Maria has been released from her hold as well,” Michalis says. He lifts a hand to his face and presses a fist to his mouth. “She doesn’t know I used her as a gambling chip, and hopefully she will never know. It was all what was necessary to keep Minerva in line. To keep Macedon in line.”

“Your sister is all well and good.” Camus slowly rises from his seat, presses his hands to the table, and leans forward. “But what did you say of my prince and princess?”

“They’re being taken back to Grust,” Michalis repeats. He leans forward as well, so close now. His breath is fresh and clean. “To see Ludwik. But, I imagine he doesn’t want to see them. The man doesn’t seem to give a damn about his children. Regardless, they’ve been freed from their captivity, and you’ll be able to see them soon. You’d have to leave tomorrow to meet them at the Grustian palace, I think.”

Something in Camus snaps. He scowls, lashes out, and grabs the lapels of Michalis’ coat in his fists. Michalis smiles as Camus jerks him closer, bringing their faces almost together. He’s shaking, his breath coming out uneven, and he chokes out, “You come into my room, regale me with stories of the princess’ murder, torment me with talks of politics and suffering, and you only think to tell me, after all that, that my prince and princess are free?”

Michalis leans forward, so close that their lips are nearly brushing. “What can I say? I wanted to have you to myself for even just a few minutes. To let you know that you aren’t alone. If you ever need comfort, I am here for you.”

Camus shoves him away, recoiling. “As if I would ever ‘entertain’ the likes of you!”

“Perhaps you’ll come around one day,” Michalis suggests, “when you aren’t so torn up over a recent loss. We have to do our best to find comforts in this world now; soon, they may not be so readily available.”

“Just get out.” Camus puts his face in a hand. “Get out, please.”

Michalis does get up from the table, as asked, and starts making for the door. He pauses on his way out, gives Camus one more glance, and then exits the door.

A minute later, Belf opens the door, peeking his head in. The poor boy looks exhausted, now that Camus gets a good look at him. The normally tidy Belf looks like he hasn’t slept in days: his dark hair is askew, his skin ashen. He waits for Camus to acknowledge him with a nod, then slips into the room and shuts the door behind him. He just stands there.

The rain pours for a few seconds, deafening until Belf speaks. “We- we were guarding her night and day, like you said we had to. I promise we were, Captain.”

Camus sighs, presses his face into a hand, and then approaches the window once more. He grips the ledge of it and looks out. Nyna’s headstone, just an indiscernible shape in the distance, keeps looking at him. “I know. You have never let me down.”

He hears Belf shift on his feet. It’s hard to remember sometimes, when Belf is so mature and diligent, but Camus is reminded every now and then that Belf is only a young man of twenty. A prodigy, one of the youngest recruits the Sable Order has inducted, but still barely more than a boy. He mumbles a little when he says, “Every second, and then she- she told us we deserved a break. We were just taking an hour for ourselves at her insistence. I promise we weren’t slacking off. I promise you we did our very best.”

Camus’ fingers turn numb the harder he grips the cold stone. “I know that. I know that if you had gotten between her and Medeus, it would have been fruitless. There would have been more bloodshed. You would have lost your lives on top of hers.”

“But we would have gone down with a fight, just like her!” Belf raises his voice and takes a step forward. “We would have died following your orders, with honor-!”

“It would have made no difference. We should just be glad that you are alive.”

“There’s no point in our lives! We- we don’t matter. Princess Nyna was all that mattered. She was the face and voice of the Archanean League! She was what rallied the people! And we let her die. If it could have been us-”

“Belf.” Camus leans forward and rests his head upon the glass. “No more.”

* * *

* * *

The next day, before Camus leaves for Grust, unthinkable things happen. Of course, the past day has been a series of unthinkable things: The realization he’s been deceived, the confirmation of Nyna’s death, the fall of the Archanean League, Yubello and Yuliya’s release, Gharnef’s murder, everything. It’s been quite a lot for the past 36 hours, and Camus assumed he could not possibly be more shocked at anything else that could happen. He thought he couldn’t possibly really feel anything, after what has happened.

And then, Medeus summons him and Ludwik to the throne room again, shortly before they are to leave for Grust. The summon is on such short notice that their bags and trunks are packed on the ship, waiting for them at the docks. They’re both dressed in their traveling clothes. Camus notes that Ludwik is standing a good distance from him, hunched over and hollow-eyed. The throne room is empty, without even any guards, and especially no coffin; it is filled only by Medeus on the throne, surveying them with disdain.

“Ludwik. General Camus.” Medeus leans his cheek against a fist and narrows his eyes. “I have news for you.”

Afraid of speaking over him, they both wait quietly.

“Prince Yubello and Princess Yuliya have been released from their captivity, as per our agreement. You upheld your word when you gave them to us, Ludwik, and you upheld your vow to remain Dolhr’s allies. We now uphold our vow to you and release your offspring.”

Ludwik looks down and doesn’t speak. Camus sees his mustache quivering.

“I would have thought you would be happy about this, Ludwik.” Medeus lowers his arm back to the throne, and his glare seems to intensify. “King Michalis seemed as… overjoyed as he can get, regarding the release of his youngest sister.”

“The children are only children,” Ludwik finally mumbles, after a few tight seconds. Camus grimaces and steps away, appalled by him once more.“I am just glad they were of some mild use to your cause.”

Medeus does not reply.

Camus glances away, contemplates his words, and then looks back to Ludwik. “Your own children, sire,” he says softly. “You gave away your own children as prisoners of war. Do you feel no remorse?”

Ludwik jerks his head up and scowls at Camus, so angry so suddenly. “As I recall, _you_ were the one who handed them over to _me!_ What, did their cries have no effect on you? Is that where this concern comes from? Guilt, in the face of the way you handed them over to me and the Dolhrian generals back then?”

“I find myself in a position where I cannot refuse you, my king.” Camus turns his head and shuts his eyes, willing his anger down. This is his liege, his master, no matter the disgust he feels towards him. He has no place to speak out; his brief fit at him yesterday was shameful enough. “I had no choice but to hand the prince and princess over to you when you demanded them.”

“They fulfilled a purpose,” Ludwik snaps again. His aged face is sunken into a vicious scowl, as though all of his frustration is spilling out. He holds out his hands. “At the least, they were able to do this for their country!”

How awful, truly, can one man be to two eight-year-olds?

“Your children were just a means to an end?” Medeus asks, tapping his chin with a claw. “Is that what you mean to say, Ludwik?”

“I gave them to you as collateral because it was what you wanted, Lord Medeus,” Ludwik replies. “It would have hurt to lose them, I suppose, but-”

“You don’t care for your offspring,” Medeus says slowly. “You forced General Camus to hand over your own children, and you allowed my men to keep them in a dark room for two years. When I say this, does it bring you guilt?”

There is a brief moment of hesitation, wherein Ludwik freezes up, and then he replies, “Of course it does. I have a heart in me.”

Does he, Camus wonders. Does he really?

“Do you feel that guilt from a place of paternity?” Medeus questions again. “Or, is the guilt just superficial? Do you feel pity for these little ones as a father, or… Perhaps, Ludwik, do you feel bad for yourself?”

Ludwik’s mustache starts twitching more wildly. Camus watches all the color drain from his already-pale face as Medeus stands from the throne, and he finds himself stumbling back along with Ludwik. Medeus descends the dais and makes for Ludwik, every step calm, even, echoing in the barren throne room, driving Ludwik in a different direction from Camus.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Ludwik demands, and his voice raises an octave. “Camus! Camus, what are you doing, standing there? Defend me!”

It’s instinct that brings Camus’ hand to his saber, and it is within his saber that he feels no conviction. No nothing. There is normally a passion that rises from within him when it comes to the defense of his people, his country, his king, and it is jarring to him that suddenly, that passion has run cold.

Medeus pauses and looks over his shoulder at Camus briefly. He waits, smiles when Camus makes no move to draw his saber, and turns his head back to Ludwik. He knows that Camus has no pity for this man, this beast who cannot even be bothered to care for his own children. Medeus knows that, undoubtedly because he feels the same. Camus never thought that they would share a similar mind—he’s disgusted.

“Camus!” Ludwik keeps screaming as Medeus advances closer. He howls in terror as Medeus lashes out, and Camus watches as Medeus lifts his arm, raising Ludwik into the air. His voice becomes mildly strangled as he chokes out, “Camus, Camus, you coward! You treasonous craven! Defend your king! Camus!”

Ludwik screams, his voice coming out a gurgle as Medeus tightens his grip on his throat. Camus shuts his eyes and looks away, trembling, wondering what sort of knight he has become that he would so dispassionately watch his king die in front of him, only to then feel no shame for it.

“Camus!”

He turns his head, his jaw clenched as Ludwik keeps howling and gurgling. The silver of his saber is cold beneath his fingers, prickling his flesh. He shakes, grips it tighter, and then quickly, in one clean motion, he removes his hand.

“Ca-mmm-us! C-cow- a- rrd!”

A sickening _snap!_ echoes in the throne room, and the only sound that comes from Ludwik following it is that of his body slumping to the cold floor as Medeus drops him.

Camus gasps, and he realizes he hasn’t been breathing. He stares, shell-shocked, at Ludwik’s crumpled, lifeless body on the floor, and swallows as he looks up to Medeus climbing the dais again.

“Humans,” Medeus mumbles with a step. “I cannot stand you. Have you no love in your hearts? You oppress my kind. You oppress your own. You do not even truly care for your little ones.” He stops at the throne, sighs, and turns to sit back down. He takes up his standard pose, resting his cheek on a fist as he glares down at him. “You seem to care more for those children than their own father, General Camus. I will give you that much credit.”

Woozy, Camus looks back to Ludwik. “He- I- Ludwik never cared for them. Those children- Their own father never cared.”

“Obviously.” Medeus huffs and tucks his chin to his chest, shaking his head. “His death is inconsequential. There is no use for human rulers in the Archanea I intend to create. The world I would like to create, were it not for those two.”

“‘Those two?’”

Medeus looks at him and curls his lip. “Duma and Mila. As an educated man, I presume you learned of them in whatever foreign studies humans are offered.” He pauses and looks to the corner of the ceiling. “I wonder how they fare over in that land they settled in. The power of two Divine Dragons rivaling Naga herself is, unfortunately, enough to keep me away.”

He does not understand all of what Medeus says, and his mouth is so dry, but he mumbles, “I- I see.”

Medeus’ eyes come back down to him, and his lips quirk upwards. “I have one more item of business for you, Camus, before I send you back to Grust. Would you hear it?”

It’s not as though he has a choice, but he nods regardless to appease Medeus.

“I would like to extend a gift unto you,” Medeus elaborates, “as a reward for your loyalty, you see.”

 _His loyalty._ It stings to hear Medeus say it like that.

“A gift for me, Lord Medeus?” He doesn’t want any gift. He doesn't. “Your offer is most kind, but you needn’t-”

“You will allow me to finish speaking, boy,” Medeus snaps.

Camus shuts his mouth and swallows.

“I would grant clemency to you and your men.” Medeus sits straight and steeples his fingers, looking upon Camus with a curve to his lips. Camus cannot make out the expression exactly, whether or not it is disgust, delight, cunning. “To many who helped me achieve my goals. I will allow you a chance to escape.”

The words drift over his head; he can’t process them. “‘Escape?’ My lord Medeus, what could you mean by-?”

“I will grant you the ability to leave Archanea, General Camus of Grust.”

Camus’ body seizes up, and he stares, blankly, up at Medeus. He wonders if he is not pulling his leg, granting him some false hope of fleeing his mistakes, only to then cruelly rip it away. Yet, a few seconds pass, and Medeus says nothing else. He stares down at Camus, perhaps curious.

He swallows and finds his voice. “Leave Archanea? Why-”

“I do not expect to make the lives of your people as hellish as those of the human countries who chose not to ally with us,” Medeus explains. “I am a being of honor, unlike yourselves. But humans must be subjected regardless. I am offering you a chance to flee from that, and to take your men—and the Grustian prince and princess—with you, at your leisure.”

The throne room is eerily quiet; Camus can think of nothing to say to fill the space. He’s all but forgotten Ludwik’s cold corpse a mere ten feet away, such is his shock. He cannot manage to pull his eyes from Medeus, whose expression he now finally pins down:

Amusement.

“You would let me take the prince and princess?” Camus asks slowly. “And save them from the horrors this place has wrought upon them?”

“Of course.” Medeus leans back and wraps his fingers together, his lips now pressed into a thin smile. “It is the least I can do for you, General Camus. After all, you contributed so greatly to our victory. ‘Twas you who coordinated the assault on King Cornelius of Altea and his forces. ‘Twas you who led the assault on the Holy Kingdom. You beheaded the Archanea royalty with a blade you stole from them and made your own.”

Medeus looks down at Camus and takes a pause. “And, ‘twas you, General Camus, who lulled the Archanean princess into such a sense of safety and security. You, who kept her locked in this palace for two years, convincing her she was safe and sound, when she was really only ever your prisoner. You lowered her guard to such a degree that we were able to walk right in and have her head. It simply could not have been done without you.”

Camus takes a step back, the world reeling as he realizes, _oh,_ it is not anyone else’s fault that he will not hear Nyna’s voice again. It is not anyone’s fault that he will never again touch her hair or feel her lips. It truly is not anyone else’s fault that he will never again watch her, clever and sharp in the dead of the night, as she sits at her writing desk and pens letters to revolutionaries around the country.

Camus is the only one to blame for any of this.

* * *

* * *

It’s raining in Grust when the carriage rolls up to the palace’s courtyard. It seems to have barely stopped raining since Camus learned of Nyna’s execution, and he thinks he might be glad for it. He doesn’t know if he could bear the cheer of sunlight right now, when everything has gone wrong.

The only thing that has gone right is the arrival of the carriage. He has a broad umbrella and a cloak, along with Belf, Reiden, and Roberto behind him. They watch together as the carriage comes to a halt, and Camus takes the lead as he makes his way down the slick palace steps.

The driver is inconsequential; he leaves Reiden to pay the woman and focuses on the carriage itself. Camus turns and passes the shaft of the umbrella to Roberto, who holds it over him politely, and puts his hand on the carriage door.

He’s barely opened it before it bursts all the way open, and out come lunging two children. Camus grunts as one collides directly with him, their arms wrapped around his neck, and he barely manages to keep his footing on the wet cobblestone. He wraps one arm around the child clinging to him, then reaches down to pat the head of the other, who is clinging to Belf’s coat. The previously quiet courtyard fills with the sound of the children’s sniffles and whines, and they don’t move for a long, long time.

“Your Highnesses,” Roberto says quietly, but it doesn’t catch the children’s attention.

“They finally let us out,” the one Camus is holding cries; he recognizes them now as Yubello. The two have been gone so long, their hair is roughly the same length now. It’s almost impossible to tell them apart when they’re both hiding their faces.

“They did,” Camus assures. He reaches up and pats the back of Yubello’s head, and it seems to comfort the boy. His sniffles start to wane, but Yuliya is still sobbing loudly into the hem of Belf’s coat. “You two do not have to go back into that dark room ever again.”

“I hated it!” Yuliya cries loudly. “I hated it!”

“I know you did, princess.” Camus adjusts Yubello in his arm and turns back towards the palace. With a hand to the back of her head, he gently urges Yuliya along. Roberto keeps the umbrella above them steady. “But you do not have to worry about suffering ever again. I will ensure that.”

They enter the castle. Camus takes them to their room to pass them over to a maid to bathe and prepare them for dinner. He stands guard outside the door, Gradivus humming in hand. Roberto, Belf, and Reiden patrol the grounds. Outwardly, it seems normal, as though nothing has changed. And yet, they all know that everything has changed for them, for one reason or another.

Camus sees Nyna, the last he ever saw her alive, whenever he closes his eyes.

* * *

* * *

It’s unusual for knights to dine alongside royalty, but the order of everything is irrelevant now. Most of the servants in the castle are gone. Yubello and Yuliya seem to take no issue with eating among the remnants of the Sable Order, no matter how the maids quirk their heads and the chefs furrow their brows. The children even laugh over the meal, talking about how they missed seeing this and that in their rooms, and that they’d been able to read their favorite book together after their bath. It amazes Camus how quickly children can rebound, but he wonders how the two of them will fare when the night and its accompanying dark come, very shortly.

He goes to see them off to bed for this reason. He leaves Gradivus behind in his quarters, along with his coat and cravat and all of his embellishments. The hallways are empty as he slinks through them, making his way up stairs and through castle wings to get to their room. It truly is so odd to see the palace so dead; most servants have gone with Camus’ permission, back to their families and to find new employment. Only a few have stayed behind to care for the children. The nobility have holed themselves up in their own estates, and likely aren’t about to be leaving to peruse the castle any time soon.

A maid is leaving the children’s room just as Camus turns the hallway. She jumps when she sees him, relaxes quickly, and nods politely as he passes. “The children are just about to sleep, Lord Camus. I’m sure they won’t mind if you go in and attend to whatever business you have, though.”

“Thank you.” Camus puts his hand on the doorknob and sighs. “Have a good night, madam.”

“And you as well, sir.”

The twins, dressed for sleep, are sitting together on one of their beds when Camus comes in. He finds them poring over a picture book together. Yuliya is holding it as Yubello looks over her shoulder, but they easily pull their attention from it when he shuts the door behind him.

“Camus!” Yuliya gets up and stands on the bed, holding the book straight out to show him. “We read our favorite book!”

Innocent children, already slipping back into their regular routines. It’s charming, really. Camus manages to find a smile for them as he politely takes the extended book to observe the cover. Immediately, it’s familiar to him; he recognizes the bright splashes of color on the front and the title. “Ah, this is the book I gave Your Highnesses for your… sixth birthday, is it not?”

“I like that book,” Yubello says softly from the headboard of the bed. “I wanted to read it the whole time we were stuck in that room, but no one would let us read anything but the history books on the shelves.”

“And if they _did_ bring us more books, they were more history books about the Dolhrian Empire,” Yuliya huffs. “They didn’t have any pictures, Camus. No pictures! Who wants to read a book without pictures?”

“I am sorry you two had to experience the horrors of pictureless books.” Camus finds a stool near the nightstand between their beds. He pulls it forward as he hands the book back to the children, then takes a seat with a grunt. The twins stare at him with their big blue eyes, virtually unblinking as he fumbles for something to say.

“Thank you for coming to see us a few weeks ago,” Yubello says finally.

It feels like a knife to Camus’ heart; if he had not gone to see the children, hadn’t been duped into it, Nyna would likely still be alive. Maybe he would have been able to get her to Aurelis. But, if he had done that, who knows what would have happened to the children? And, he thinks, if he took Nyna to Aurelis, there is no doubt in his mind that the prince and princess would still be sitting in that dark, uncomfortably warm room in Khaedin. Perhaps that action would have counted as a betrayal; perhaps that could have resulted in the children’s deaths instead.

“It was my pleasure,” he finally tells them. “I am only sorry I could not save you from there sooner.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Yuliya assures. She sits down on the bed heavily, and the frame creaks as the mattress bounces. She shakes her head, then looks back up to Camus. “Hey, where’s our father?”

At this, Camus visibly grimaces. The children don’t seem to take it as a good sign. Yubello and Yuliya look to each other, then back to him, unspeaking.

“Your lord father, the king-” Camus looks at them and sweeps his tongue over his lips, struggling to find an appropriate way to tell them the truth. He wonders if he should sugarcoat it, or if he should have have faith in their ability to accept it. They’ve been through so much, after all; maybe he should not baby them too much. “King Ludwik is dead, my lieges.”

Yubello and Yuliya continue to not speak. They simply look up at him with their big eyes, giving him such blank looks that he wonders if they’ve somehow misunderstood him. But then, they look at each other again, frown, and Yuliya says, “How?”

Perhaps Camus shouldn’t be too surprised that they’re having a hard time caring. Ludwik never cared for them as a father should, after all. Yubello and Yuliya saw him maybe once a week. He’d never thought about it before, but he wonders if the twins have ever had any sort of love in their own hearts for their father. He wonders how aware they are that it was their own father who used them as gambling chips in a political game.

He’s glad they don’t mourn that man.

“You do not need to know that,” Camus chides. “It is time for you two to sleep now.”

“I don’t want to sleep,” Yuliya protests in an uncharacteristically small voice. “I don’t want to turn out the lamps.”

“I see. I understand.” Camus looks at the drawn curtains; the only source of light in the room are the few oil lamps scattered around. It’s fairly bright, and certainly not helping them sleep. That’s the point, he imagines. “You two don’t like the dark.”

“It was dark in that room,” Yubello whispers. “I don’t want to turn out the lights in this one.”

“I understand.” Camus chews the inside of his cheek and looks about. “Let me propose this to you: let us turn off most of the lights, and we will leave a couple of them on. Then, I will stay here and guard you as you sleep.”

Yuliya holds the book up to hide her lower face behind. “Promise you’ll stay here until we sleep?”

“I do promise, my lady.” Camus reaches for the oil lamp at their nightstand, finds the knob, and tweaks it until the flame goes out. “I will have to leave to attend to some business, but I will be here until you are asleep. And, when you wake up, it will be light again.”

They accept the deal silently, pulling up the covers and squirming into the same bed together as Camus goes around the room, turning off the lamps on the wall one by one. They stop him when there are three more left, letting him know that this is as dark as they are willing to allow.

They don’t speak any more for the rest of the night. The twins shut their eyes and huddle together. Camus recalls their room in Khaedin having only one bed, and figures that sleeping together is likely their norm now. He’d worried about them not being able to sleep, but they look mildly at peace. He wonders if his presence next to their bed has anything to do with that.

A while passes. No one comes to get Camus; there’s no need to. Everything in the world is at a standstill. There is no business to attend to, no king to guard, no nothing. There are only the children in front of him, only the children who need him. He keeps his eyes on them, increasingly numb as the night grows. He sits there upon the stool, remembering the coffin, Medeus, his reward for his “loyalty.” The fact that his loyalty is the reason Nyna is dead. That _he_ is the reason Nyna is dead.

He thinks about the hesitant, shaking walk to Nyna’s quarters, the night before leaving for Grust. The memory sticks in his mind: the way he’d told himself not to go. To not subject himself to the sight of it. But he’d gone anyway, slipping out in the quiet of the Archanean night to take the familiar walk to her room like a fool, as though hoping it had all been a lie, that he’d open the door like he’d done so many times and Nyna would be there, studying at her desk or gazing out at the gardens below her window.

And Camus remembers opening her door and finding splatters of blood on her white carpets. Charred gaps in her golden wallpaper. A broken bedpost. A collection of her revolutionary letters on the floor, stained with a broken bottle of ink. Camus remembers opening her door, finding naught but ruin, and how it felt when his last spark of hope died.

The realization that he does not want to live hits Camus now like a raging bull.

There’s nothing in the world for him. Camus has no family left alive, barely any friends. He has no king to pledge himself to—it’s his own fault that Ludwik is dead. He has handed Grust over to Dolhr on a silver platter. Though, perhaps he has protected the people from the worst of it by letting Medeus and Gharnef pull on his strings, as though he were a marionette.

Camus has no Nyna. No partner to consult with quietly in the night. No one to keep him company. No one to love or hold. Without Nyna, he feels he has nothing.

It would be easier to die.

Easier to die, were it not that he has a responsibility.

* * *

* * *

“Captain Camus?”

Reiden is watching him, utterly baffled as he walks through the sitting room, past the hearth, and grabs every bit of silver and gold and finery he can get. Roberto and Belf watch as well, confused, from their place at a table with a chessboard. Camus is certain he must look a little like a madman, taking handfuls of gold knick-knacks and shoving them into a traveling bag. He feels like one, too.

“I am taking the prince and princess to Valentia,” Camus replies, as though he has just told them he is about to take them on a daytrip for a picnic in the hills.

Roberto sputters, “V- Valentia, sir? Wh- Why? How?”

“Medeus has offered us clemency,” Camus says. He observes the silver model of a bird, trying to chalk up its worth, and then also puts it in his bag. It’s starting to get heavy. “As a reward for our loyalty to him, he has given me, and the rest of you, the ability to flee the continent.”

“Kindness?” Belf questions quietly, then shakes his head. “No, no, ‘tis not it… What if it’s a trap?”

The thought has occurred to Camus a few times, since the initial offer was made. But, no, that’s not it. “Medeus has no need to trap us. He has everything he wants. The Falchion, the Shield of Seals, Archanea. What need has he to trap four knights and two eight-year-olds?”

“It makes no sense for him to just leave us be,” Reiden insists.

True enough, but: “Medeus likely wants us out of his hair. I think, perhaps, he understands we were involved in Nyna’s revolution. At the very least, he is worried we were ‘infected’ by the sentiments of it. Better to send us away to a foreign land, where we can become disconnected from Archanea and its woes.”

“He’s afraid of you,” Belf says insistently. He stands from the table, knocking over a few chess pieces. “Right? Why else would he be so concerned if you were to become a revolutionary? Medeus is scared of you, and we should take that as a sign that we can-”

Camus finishes scooping up a couple of gold pictures frames tinto the bag, tugs on the string, and snaps, “I have no intention of fighting Medeus or his hold on this country.”

“Captain-!”

“My—our—responsibility is to Grust. And, if we cannot help the country as a whole, then the responsibility turns to preserving its royal family.” Camus looks down to the bag, mildly sickened at what he has just done; all but looted the room. “I must take the children to Valentia. There, I will find good lives for them, far from the suffering Ludwik put them through. Such is my duty.”

There is silence, and then, so quietly, Roberto comments, “It’s not like you to run, Captain.”

Roberto may as well have punched him in the gut.

“To leave the people of Grust behind,” Reiden continues. “To- to flee and make livelihoods somewhere else… Captain Camus, that is-”

“The right decision.”

Camus clutches the bag, as though he is guilty, and turns towards the voice. Reiden and Belf bow deeply to the man in the doorway, and Roberto scrambles up from his chair to do the same. Camus has been a good rank above him for a long time, since he was promoted to Captain of the Sable Order, but he finds himself lowering his head as well in respect.

Lorenz is just as intimidating as ever; not a massively tall man, not like Camus, but big and broad, especially for his growing age. His stark white hair is swept back neatly, his dark clothes pressed nicely, and his eyepatch looks nearly sunken into his face. He’s as old as Ludwik, nearly, but he looks almost decades younger than the late king. He possesses a considerable amount more presence than Ludwik ever did.

“General Lorenz,” Camus greets. “When did you return from Gra?”

“An hour ago.” Lorenz crosses his arms and looks about the room, looking no less exhausted than any of them. “So. Clemency for the Sable Order, is it? This is how he gets in your head? Coy move on his part.”

None reply to him. As though too exhausted to keep standing, Belf slumps back into a chair and puts his face in his hands. Camus feels like doing the same.

“It’s what’s best for the children, though. I leave them in your hands.” Lorenz turns his eye to Camus, then shuts it for a moment before looking to the fire. “Though, I suppose you rank above me now, and need not my approval.”

“‘Tis welcome anyway,” Camus replies, hardly more than a mumble. He feels guilty, holding the bag with the room’s riches. Sometimes he still feels like a green recruit, in awe of Lorenz’s presence at their remote outpost, thrilled at the chance to cross blades with him in the yard. He remembers the first time he beat Lorenz, no holds barred, at the age of eighteen. And then, shortly thereafter, being transferred over to the Sable Order upon Lorenz’s own recommendation.

Lorenz has done so much for him, and now he is leaving him behind.

“The children are our royalty, and children always are the heart of a country. They do not deserve the subjugation and torment Medeus will throw at them the older they get. They deserve to go somewhere where they can try to obtain normal lives again. Perhaps Valentia is that place; Archanea is certainly not.” Lorenz’s eye bores into Camus again before turning on the other three. “I will stay here in Grust while you go with them. Perhaps at my age, there is not much life left in me. But, I will use what is left to hold the people together and to fend off Dolhr as much as I may.”

“It is such responsibility,” Camus says. “And you’re-”

“It is such responsibility to care for children,” Lorenz interrupts. “To find them a new home and to have them be raised into adults that would make Grust proud. Whether you decide to keep them or to give them to someone capable, they are your responsibility now, Camus. They will rely on you. You are their guardian. You’re the only suitable one, now.”

Camus bites his tongue and grips the bag tighter. He’s not equipped, especially not now, to parent two young children. He can’t do it. He knows he can’t care for two lives, not when he doesn’t even want his own.

* * *

* * *

“Why can’t we stay here?” the children ask him every hour, every day that they prepare to leave. “This is home!”

“Because,” Camus replies each time; this particular one, he is in the record hall of the palace, scrounging up any records and proofs he can find of the children’s royal blood. The Valentians belong to a classist society, as he understands it. He can’t just expect the twins to have good lives, even with a mountain of gold in tow—they need to _be_ someone.

“Because why?” Yuliya asks insistently. “I don’t wanna leave. We just got home!”

Camus rifles through some more papers, scanning them over. Important documents for certain, but not what he’s looking for. He puts them back in their files and box, hands it over to Roberto, and takes the next box passed down from Reiden atop a ladder.  The children are pouting, unsurprisingly, and clinging to the edge of the desk as they glare at Camus. Their round cheeks bunch up as they rest their chins on the wood, and their eyes follow him.

“We have to leave because Archanea is not safe anymore.” He decides to not sugarcoat it. More than anything, he doesn’t have the energy to. He hasn’t slept well in weeks now; it takes wit and rest to come up with a good lie. “You children should know that. You are old enough to know.”

“When do we leave?” Yubello, always the adapter, asks quietly.

“The Dolhrians have arranged for a ship to take both of you and the captain to Valentia in three days,” Reiden tells them. “So, soon.”

“Are you coming with us?” asks Yuliya. “And Lorenz, too?”

“We’ve made the decision to stay for another few weeks,” Belf says. “Just to make sure our roles here are completed. And then, they’ll send a ship for us, and we’ll join you. General Lorenz will be staying, though.”

“Why do only we get to leave?” she demands.

Camus sighs and slams a box down onto the desk, harder than intended. The children jump and take a step back, but he doesn’t have it in him right now to apologize. “Because.”

Yuliya snips back, “That’s a bad answer.”

What is he supposed to tell them? That they’re allowed to leave, out of everyone in Archanea, because Camus sold out an entire continent to Medeus? That this is their “reward,” because he played his part in Nyna’s death? What is he supposed to say?

“You’ll be happy in Valentia,” he assures, and he hopes it is true.

* * *

* * *

“You don’t want us to join you?” Belf asks this question, sounding like he’s been betrayed.

Camus isn’t certain how to reply; he looks over at the ship, where the children are leaning over the bow to look down into the waters. It’s a vessel manned by Dolhrians, but they’re human. He expects the all-human crew has something to do with the manaketes’ unwillingness to be at sea with him and the children. Why should they have to deal with humans, now that they have established themselves as the superior species?

“I do not want company,” Camus replies eventually. He turns his eyes back to Belf, and Reiden and Roberto just behind. “None of it.”

“But-” Belf holds out his hands, looking for a reason. “But, sir-”

His shoulder aches; Camus shifts his bag and looks around the docks, finding them completely empty. An unusual sight. “You are free to come to Valentia, when you believe your work here is done. They’ll send a ship for you as they promised. But, I do not want you to come looking for me.”

“Sir, I think we should stick together.” Roberto lowers his voice. “Assuming no one else from Macedon or Gra is allowed to leave, we’ll be the only Archaneans on the outside. We should stick together, form a resistance, and-”

“Silence!” Camus hisses lowly, and they all jump. “If you want to leave this place and escape whatever horrors Medeus is preparing to inflict upon humankind, you will shut your mouths, keep your heads low, and never speak like that on this soil again!”

Roberto visibly swallows.

“He is right,” Reiden notes. “Don’t say anything that will compromise us. We’ve just got to make it through a couple of months.”

“And then we’ll go to Valentia,” Belf continues, “and we’ll meet up with the captain, once he stops being stubborn.”

Camus’ lip twitches. “You will do no such thing. I have given it a great deal of thought, and I want my solitude.”

“You want to mope around and sulk,” Belf snaps. “I won’t allow it!”

“So you intend to disobey a direct order?”

Belf winces at this, but stands his ground. Camus has never seen Belf disobey him so persistently—he’s nearly impressed. “Are they orders? Are we even the Sable Order anymore?”

The question brings a hush over the four of them. It’s a long, heavy moment before Camus takes a deep breath and says, “No.”

More silence, and then Belf replies, “Then I take no orders from you.”

“Then you should feel no loyalty to me,” Camus counters. “I am not your captain. I am a man of no power. Once I get to Valentia, I will be nothing, just as you will be.”

“I admire you!” Belf takes a step forward and reaches out, clamping a fist over the front of Camus’ cloak. Camus takes a step back, but Belf yanks him right back forward. “Since I was young, I always admired you! Doesn’t matter if you’re captain or not. I failed you enough when I let them take the princess; let me make it up to you!”

Reiden grabs Belf’s shoulder. “Belf!”

_Nyna._

Scowling, Camus grips Belf right back and shoves him away. “I said no!”

“Are we really just going to let him run away?” Belf asks them, but Reiden and Roberto refuse to meet his eyes. “Are we- are we really just going to disband?”

No one speaks. Camus doesn’t like the unsettled stir in the pit of his stomach. There is a hum in the back of his mind, though it is muffled by the distance between him and Gradivus. Still, he hears its sneering voice, murmuring, _‘Coward… You need them as they need you. Coward…’_

Camus turns his head and starts the walk to the gangplank. “I have to go. Safe travels of your own, my friends, whenever you choose to leave for Valentia.”

“Sir-!”

“Leave him, Belf!”

It’s not as though he wants to leave it just like this. It’s not as though he wants to leave the three of them angry at him. It’s just that he needs solitude, this separation. He needs to go to Valentia on his own, find somewhere for the children, and leave Camus behind. He knows that if he has the three of them with him, he won’t be able to let it go. They won’t let him.

Camus starts climbing the gangplank, but spares a glance back. Roberto is looking away, swallowing heavily. Reiden, ever the reason and with a stony gaze, is holding back Belf. It’s hard to see, really. Belf is young, no matter how mature he acts. He’s abandoned all pretenses of behaving far beyond his age now, though, and he’s straining if only a little against Reiden, his eyes glistening with some tears.

He remembers first meeting Belf when the lad was hardly more than a boy. Seventeen. A green recruit standing in a row of potential Sable Knights. The son of a southern farmer, with a face tanned and freckled from the heavy sun. And out of all the recruits, it had been Belf that Camus chose, for some reason he still finds hard to explain. It had been Belf he added to his personal entourage, Belf he had selected as his second-in-command, Belf that he had trusted and trained into someone capable of taking over for him, should the worst happen.

It doesn’t feel right leaving Belf like this, nor any of the rest.

“I hope you know I don’t hate you,” Camus tells them when he’s halfway up the ramp. “I hope you know that this does not mean I hold you responsible for- for what happened in Pales. I simply need my space. I need to be left be.”

_I simply don’t want attachments anymore._

It’s Reiden’s voice that comes, tight and thin. “Just leave. Safe travels, sir.”

He’s done all he can. Perhaps he’s done too much.

Camus boards the ship.

* * *

* * *

“How long does it take to get to Valentina?” Yubello asks.

“Valentia, my lord,” Camus corrects. “It will take us about 45 days, according to the ship’s captain.”

The ship itself is fairly small. A cargo vessel, he assumes, because there are crates and all manner of supplies. A good cover; he imagines that a ship carrying cargo is more discreet than one carrying migrants. Their own cabin, tucked amongst rows of boxes and crates, is but a single room and two beds, along with a writing desk and space for their luggage. Their trunks and bags are many, and they rock with the ship, but he’s tied them down with a few ropes and is satisfied that they won’t fall on the children.

“45 days?” Yuliya complains. “Uuuuugggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

“45 days,” Camus repeats, and from the corner of the cabin, Gradivus replies, _‘Uuuuugggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.’_

 _Just go to sleep,_ he thinks, and Gradivus makes a peeved noise in his mind as response.

“It’s okay, Yuliya.” Yubello climbs onto the smaller of the two beds, which looks like it can only hold a single person. The other is large enough for two, most likely intended for a married couple. “It’s only 45 days. We’ve dealt with worse.”

“Yeah, but I thought we were done with worse,” she snaps. “And what are we gonna eat?”

“Preserves,” Camus replies. He pats a large trunk next to the bed. “Travel abroad the vessel is free, courtesy of Medeus, but not food. This is all we’ve got to last for 45 days. Fruits, vegetables, hardtack, dried meats. I will see what I can do about bartering with the crew for food, if we need it.” He pauses and takes a heavy seat on the larger bed, sighing as he does so. He fixes the two children with a look as he holds up a finger. “Neither of you are to associate with the crew. Remember, these are humans, but they are Dolhrian. They were complicit in your captivity, and I am willing to bet they’d be just as fine with throwing you into that room again as anything else.”

Yuliya winces, and Yubello audibly swallows.

“They’re not going to do anything like throw you overboard,” Camus assures hastily. “I ensured that they saw Gradivus and my saber quite well when I boarded. I only mean to say that any interactions with them could turn out… unpleasant. I ask that you only go up on deck when I am supervising you, and that you only talk to the crew when I am near. Do you understand?”

In unison, they both mumble, “Yes.”

“Good.” Camus grimaces as the ship goes over a particularly rough wave; they’ve only been at sea for two hours, but he’s already feeling sick. “And, if either of you get sick, let me know. I brought medicine from the palace that should help with that.”

“Okay.”

“As for your entertainment.” Camus nods to a bag sitting on the writing desk. “We will be studying.”

“Studying?” Yuliya rolls her eyes. “Ugh, whyyyy?”

“You are going to live in Valentia,” he reminds firmly. He lets this soak in, and it seems to be doing just that. Yuliya and Yubello look at one another with grim, pale faces, and then back to him. “Do you not think it proper to learn about your new home?”

“So now you’re a Valentia Expert?” Yuliya snarks.

“I am not,” he admits. “But I brought books from the palace, and I remember my studies from my education well. As a matter of fact, I will give you your first lesson now.”

Yuliya, despite her complaining, joins Yubello up on the bed. They both peer up at him with their big eyes, reminding him of little owls. It’s nearly enough to bring a smile to his face.

“Valentia and Archanea have never been close,” Camus begins. “We engage in minimal amounts of trade. The Valentian countries are secretive, and very religious. There are stories that their deities came from Archanea, but those are only stories. Do either of you know how many countries there are upon Valentia?”

“Three?”

Camus holds up two fingers. “Two. Zofia and Rigel. We don’t have much information on these countries, but we have gathered that Rigel is much more closed-off. It’s cold for much of the year, and it’s harder to grow crops. In contrast, Zofia accepts Archanea trade quite well, and is a land of prosperity.”

“Are we going to Zofia?” Yuliya asks hopefully.

“That is where I am planning on taking you two. Zofia is a rich, bountiful country. I imagine it will be easier to find you homes there.”

He thinks that this way he speaks about finding _them_ homes, but not himself, unsettles them. If it does, they make no mention of it.

* * *

* * *

Day ten aboard the ship, and all is well. The children have the occasional nightmare, Camus notes, but they appear to have become very good at self-soothing and comforting one another. It’s a shame to see children so young so self-dependent. It only causes him to feel a deeper hatred for Ludwik, whom he hopes received no proper burial. It would serve him right.

The crew is scanter than he first thought, only manned by about fifteen. None of them are manaketes, but none of them seem particularly fond of non-Dolhrian humans. They seem frightened of him, whenever he takes the twins up to the deck to run around in the sun, and he’s glad for it. Fear makes it easier to protect the children. Fear keeps them in line. Fear ensures that he is the one in control.

The crew, as expected, offers them no food (yet a woman does offer them a barrel of extra water, in secret), though they seem to have plenty of it. They seem to have plenty drink as well. Every other night, Camus hears them throwing a party somewhere above their cabin, whooping and hollering as they make merry. The children seem less bothered by this behavior than he feels; likely because he feels nearly green with jealousy. What he wouldn’t give for a cold whiskey, or a tankard of beer, or a bourbon. The alcohol might not agree with him on a ship, but at the least, it would keep him from the night terrors he keeps having.

They eat scant amounts of food. Camus procures a breakfast of oatmeal and a dollop of slick, preserved fruit each morning for the children, along with a cup of water. He feeds them a couple of pieces of hardtack soaked in thin, watery coffee in the middle of the day. For dinner, he scrapes up some dried pieces of beef or fish, a slice of bread for each, and more water. At the end of the day, Camus eats whatever of the day’s allotment is leftover. None of them are particularly fond of these eating arrangements, but no one complains, save for a little whispering between the children about what desserts they miss. It tugs at his heartstrings, and he offers them each another spoonful of fruit before bed.

The children pass the time by reading, or doing puzzles that Camus made sure to pack for them. As promised, he teaches them things about Valentia, with what little knowledge they have. He teaches them about what little he understands of Duma and Mila. He teaches them about the monarchy. He teaches them about the religion. He teaches them that there are certain dialects, and that they might have to be prepared to learn a new way of speaking, but they are probably safe from having to learn a new language entirely. Yubello absorbs all of this information well, and even takes notes, but Yuliya only ever sits, visibly pouting, on the bed as Camus lectures.

They’ll adjust, Camus tells himself. They’ll adjust because they’ll have to.

* * *

* * *

Day twenty on the ship, and the children are antsy. Camus feels as though he is a worn-out governess at her wits end, with the way he has to break up a fight between them at least thrice a day. Yuliya is the blatantly mean one, who oft sends Yubello running to him with tears in his eyes and tail between his legs. Yubello isn’t free of fault, though. He’s an annoying lad, sometimes, a little too timid and easy to spook, and clingy besides.

It’s fine, Camus tells himself, though his face is buried in a hand as Yuliya throws a fit on the bed. He isn’t sure what the tantrum is about, but she’s certainly screaming and pounding her fists against the pillows as though it’s the end of the world. Yubello is hiding behind him, timid as always, sniffling as he watches his older sister come unhinged for the third time in four days. But, this is fine, because it has to be, and managing their fits keeps his mind off of other things.

It takes an hour for her to calm down. He’s honestly impressed at how hard she is able to hit in all her rage, and thinks he is probably going to have a bruise on his shoulder from where she insisted on beating him over and over. It’s pitiful when she calms down, almost, how quickly she goes careening from her unbridled rage into loud, sobbing crocodile tears. His own anger and frustration leaves just as quickly as she wails and clings to him, bawling into the fabric of his shirt as she hiccups and tries to explain why she is upset. Yubello is sitting underneath the writing desk, still terrified. Camus can’t understand what Yuliya is babbling about, but he cradles the back of her head and whispers, “Yes, I know. I know,” until she falls asleep.

Yubello is less prone to rage, but he dissolves into tears the second anyone gets even a little angry at him. Camus has long suspected the boy has anxiety, and while he’s no medical professional, he becomes more sure of this with every passing day. He wakes up in the night, shaking and staring at the wall. He starts to cry whenever Yuliya so much as snaps at him for hogging a blanket. When a Dolhrian starts to shout at him in the hallway over something so trivial that Camus doesn’t even know what it is, the poor boy vomits everything in his stomach, right then and there, and nearly faints.

It’s harder to calm down Yubello, but Camus would honestly take his fits over Yuliya’s any day. Yubello sobs and cries and moans for an hour, but he does not shriek and fling his fists about. It’s annoying to have to hold the boy for so long until his tears start to stop, but he always offers a quiet thanks and falls asleep soon after he’s done airing out his woes.

After the fiasco with the Dolhrian shouting at Yubello, Camus makes it a point to pick up daily training. He takes Gradivus up to the deck when the children are napping _(‘Ah, yes, sun! Sun… This is what… I deserve.’),_ removes his coat, and practices the basics. A thrust, a swing, a jab. He can sense the Dolhrians watching him, and he can sense their unease. They fear him again, and they stop harassing the children. At the least, his is as it should be.

* * *

* * *

Day thirty-one. His knowledge of Valentia is running thin. Their lessons are now mostly the children sitting on either side of him on the bed as they flip through maps and paintings in history books. The children like the pictures just fine, and pointing at them and talking about them seems to entertain them for an hour or so at a time. He attempts to teach them how to read a little better, but finds that they’re already accomplished at it. Being locked in a room with nothing but books for nearly two years certainly has honed their skills.

The sailing gets harder the closer they come to the Valentian continent. On top of choppy sailing and storms, their waters are plagued by dagons, gargoyles, and all sorts of other creatures he can’t put a name to. He keeps these monsters secret from Yubello and Yuliya; he puts them to bed earlier than he did a week or so ago, before the monsters come out. He makes sure they’re fast asleep before he collects Gradivus, his saber, a bow, and heads out.

It rains often in the night. It comes down heavy, sloshing onto the deck, and sends the Dolhrians running. Of course they would run; Camus has been taking care of the beasts himself for days now. He’s unbothered by the rain pelting down from the sky and the lightning in the distance. He’s unbothered by the waves crashing against the helm of the ship, doing their damndest to overturn it. He’s unbothered by the massive shape that bursts from the ocean and roars, its wings flapping and sending a gust of strong wind across the deck.

He grunts as the wind blows about him and holds up an arm to protect his face. His hair and cloak whip behind him in the air, and he feels himself sliding backwards on the slick deck. The dagon perches on the helm of the ship, its golden eyes flickering around as it finds him and looks for any more additions to its meal.

 _‘Again?’_ Gradivus asks. _‘Again… another comes? Do Valentian creatures… crave my steel? My bite? Do they desire death as you do, Camus?’_

Camus braces himself against the wind and the rain. He plants his feet as firmly against the floor as he can and rears Gradivus back, teeth grit as the dagon opens its maw and screams. It would be easy to let the beast have its way with him. He doesn’t feel the urge to protect the Dolhrians, nor himself. He doesn’t feel the urge to make it through this fight. All that drives him is the thought of Yubello and Yuliya, peacefully asleep below, and how they’ve come too far to die under the teeth of a foreign beast.

“Perhaps so.”

* * *

* * *

Day thirty-eight on the ship. Camus has no more lessons for the children. Their food is running short. The three of them spend much of their days sleeping; you cannot be hungry if you are asleep, Camus tells the children, and you cannot hear the Dolhrians feasting in the dining hall above you either. They children don’t even have the energy for as many tantrums, but when they do throw them, they are worse than ever. He hates himself for not behaving responsibly and for occasionally raising his voice at them. It only makes him feel bad, and it only sends them into further hysterics when he shouts and threatens with a punishment.

 _‘They are… children…’_ Gradivus, groggy, murmurs to him. The lance has been sleeping much, just the same as them. _‘Be soft… Certainly don’t… threaten to throw them overboard.’_

“I am sick of this,” Camus hisses, pacing about their tiny, tiny room. The children are fast asleep, and he knows they’re so exhausted and weak that not even his voice can wake them. “I am _not_ their father! I shouldn’t have to put up with this bullshit!”

 _‘Aren’t you… the closest they have?’_ Gradivus is quiet for a second, then continues. _‘The closest they’ve… ever had? Be soft. Or else… I will offer consequences.’_

Camus scoffs and stops pacing, striding forward until he is face-to-blade with Gradivus. He puts his hands on his hips, lip curling. “‘The closest they have?’ You’re just trying to make me feel bad for losing my temper. Anyone would! Children-! They keep screaming and screaming, and-!”

 _‘They’re frustrated,’_ Gradivus points out. _‘As you are. They just… don’t know other ways… to express this. You must… be better.’_

“And when did you learn so much about child-rearing?” Camus sneers.

_‘How am I… supposed to know where I learned… anything? Idiot.’_

“I’m going to throw you into the ocean, you son of a bitch!”

_‘You’d need to be able… to pick me up. Which I can prevent. I-di-ot.’_

Gradivus is teasing him. It does not seem to realize he is not in a teasing mood. What else could he expect from something that doesn’t truly understand humans? What else, what else?

* * *

* * *

Day thirty-nine. They’re nearly out of food. The last things in the trunk are two loaves of stale bread and five pieces of salted fish. They have half-a-jar of preserved pears, but no one has the stomach to hold down the sickeningly sweet syrup they’re drenched in. The Dolhrians have food but have barely parted with any, no matter how he has bargained. It leaves Camus fuming; he wishes he could leave them to deal with the dagons and other monsters on their own, but then who would take them to Valentia? He has no choice but to keep protecting the ship, only for the price of a bowl of soup and a small loaf of bread a day.

They sleep. Most of the time, they just sleep. Camus does his best to rouse them on the regular, doing whatever he can to keep them active, but it proves a challenge when it’s hard for him to even wake himself up. He comes to rely on Gradivus, who so kindly wakes him every few hours with, _‘Dickhead… get up. Get up. Get uuuuup. CAMUS!’_

Camus doesn’t like sleeping much. He’s holding onto his dreams more and more, lately. Most of them are nonsense, as most dreams are, and he only recalls the fuzziest details of them. Others are more detailed, painfully so.

In one dream, he sits on a piano bench next to his mother, who has been dead for fifteen years. He can hear her smooth voice so clearly, and her eyes are so bright and alive. His childhood home slowly builds itself around them the more she talks, the more her fingers glide over the piano. Her clothing shifts from her regal gowns and suits to her military uniform, then back, then forth, then back. She plays a melody, her battle-worn hands over his own as she guides him through the scales, and then she is gone. She leaves without so much as a goodbye.

In other dreams, he simply holds his predecessor as she dies. Hippolyta of the Sable Knights was a sharp and honorable woman, striking across a battlefield with her cool, dark skin, hair black as sable, and her golden lance that seemed nearly twice her size. She died far too young, left Camus in charge when he was probably far too young, and her death continues to haunt him enough when he’s awake. He does not need to be holding her in his arms in his dreams as well, reliving the moment that she bleeds out. Her mouth moves, but her words are whisked away by the storm.

There is too much death in these dreams that he remembers. He sees specters of those he has killed. Criminals, brigands, scum, but all with lives of their own. He sees other soldiers, those who were only doing as he was when they met their deaths: their jobs.

Alongside the soldiers, the criminals, he sees the Archanean royal family’s heads as they loll over the floor of the Millennium Court’s throne room. Their execution feels like it was a lifetime ago, but it’s a memory he clearly recalls even so. He stands, resolute and dispassionate by the dais, as he watches their heads roll. The king, the younger princes, the elder princess, and the queen, who keeps screaming even as her head rolls over the marble.

And there is Nyna, staring at him from across the throne room, unflinching as her mother’s howling head bumps into her foot. Camus stares right back, suddenly stiff, heart thumping as he holds Gradivus in his hands. Blood drips from the tip, each drop echoing too loudly as they hit the floor. Nyna looks as she did when he last saw her: dressed in a blue gown, her gold hair plaited in a braid down her back. She stares at him, her face unmoving, and he swallows. His hands tremble around Gradivus.

“Why?” Nyna asks him, so simply, as she did many times in life. “My family. Why?”

A burning rage starts up in his stomach, fracturing through the sheet of ice that felt to have settled there. He grips Gradivus and sweeps it around, gesturing to the headless corpses at his feet with the tip. “You know why. They allowed slave trading all over the continent. In Grust! They were corrupt, and they were murderers!”

“And now, so are you.” Nyna folds her hands together and steps towards him, bumping away her mother’s wailing head. She looks too pale, the closer she gets to him. Too ashen and gray. He doesn’t step away from her as she advances. “I know they were bad. But my father was a good father. My mother, loving. My sister was innocent. My brothers hardly knew what Grust was. I loved them.”

“I did only as ordered,” he replies, quiet. “None of it was to hurt you, Nyna.”

Nyna stops a few feet away from him and tilts her head. The gold of her hair swings at her back, mesmerizing. “I loved them, but I love you, too. Funny, isn’t it? Loving what ruins you. It makes me wonder, Camus. Do I love you from the bottom of my heart? Do I love you because you’ve been the only one close to me these past years? Do I have an obsession with you that stems from what you’ve done to me? I’ve never been able to puzzle that out.”

“My love.” Camus drops Gradivus. It vanishes when it hits the floor, without so much as a clang. He reaches for Nyna’s hands, and he finds that they are so cold when he grabs them. “Oh, my rose.”

“‘Love. Rose’ Can you call me those things?” Nyna muses. “When you took everything from me, Camus?” She shuts her eyes and shakes her head. “Should I call you my heart? It drives me mad, to love whom I hate.”

“You say that.” Camus lowers his head and shakes it. “You say that, and it hurts me!”

Nyna looks up at him again, dead eyes open and boring into his face. “Do not speak to me of pain, Camus of Grust.” She squeezes his hands tightly. Tighter. Ever tighter, more and more, until he is grunting and shrinking from her, fearful of her strength. She advances on him again, eyes ablaze as she grows ever paler and colder. “Do not speak to me of pain, Camus! I hurt you? Nothing I say is comparable to the hurt you caused me when you severed their heads from their bodies!”

Camus stumbles over the steps of the dais and collapses, shivering as Nyna squeezes his hands tighter and looms. They both grow colder together, as though she is sucking the warmth from him and sending it nowhere. She squeezes, and her nails sink into his hands. He cries out in pain and writhes as too much blood gushes from his palms, but Nyna does not flinch away.

“Do not speak to me of pain,” she hisses, “until you have felt my loss! My family, my kingdom, my agency, all stripped from me!” Her voice quivers despite her anger as she continues. “And whose fault was all of that?”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “My rose, I am sorry. I did not have the courage to betray Medeus, nor my king. I am sorry.”

“‘Sorry’ is a nice sentiment,” she replies, just as quietly. Nyna bends down, straddling him, and their faces come close. Her breath is cold and stale, and it sends a shudder up his spine. “It is. You have said it so many times. But ‘sorry’ only goes so far, Camus of Grust. My heart. My darling one. It only goes so far, and never over the line you have crossed.”

In the distance, the queen’s head is still screaming. Camus tries to pay it no attention, but the sound of it fills his ears. Nyna’s flame-blue eyes bore into him so intensely it feels as though she is gouging at his flesh with a dagger. His hands are gone now, and she is grasping at his shoulders, his neck. He doesn’t have the strength to fight her off. He doesn’t have any strength in the face of her misery and anger. He lets her tear into him, clawing at his skin, his hair, his throat, his chest, everything.

“Why did you let me die?” Nyna asks, the tone of her voice begging. “Why did you let your rose die? I had so much to do! You let me die, and you let Archanea die with me!” Her hands press into the cavity of his chest, prying apart the bone with a sickening crack. She sinks her fingers through the sinew, the bone, into his heart, and she tears at it.

_“CAMUS OF GRUST!”_

He wakes up, choking, gasping, flailing. There’s a scream caught halfway in his throat. His mind is going fast, too fast, and all he sees is the dark. The room is rocking. There is a voice in his mind, shouting— _‘Camus, Camus, be still! Master!’_ He can’t breathe, and there are suddenly hands on him, digging into his shoulder as he writhes.

“I’m sorry-” he breathes out, but he doesn’t know if it’s comprehensible. He doesn’t even know who he is apologizing to, or what for, or-

“Camus!” It is Yuliya, shaking him frantically, voice quivering. “Camus?”

There’s another set of hands on him then, but they don’t shake him. This pair simply pats one of his hands, and Yubello whispers, “You were screaming. But it’s okay now.”

Gradually, he stops shaking. His eyes adjust to the dark, and he sees the top of the room. He remembers that they are on a ship, and that the rocking is simply that of the waves. The voice is only Gradivus, who keeps humming lowly to him. Nyna is not here, not repeating any of their arguments to him, not ripping into his heart. There are only the children, sitting over him with wide and frightened eyes.

“It’s okay,” Yuliya says. “I bet you were having a scary dream. Yubello and I have those a lot, too.”

“Yes,” he breathes, blinking. The screaming of the queen’s head is still ringing in his ears. “Yes, only a scary dream.”

“I think we’re lucky none of the crew down here came to see what was wrong,” Yubello says. “But they’re probably too drunk to hear anything.”

Camus reaches up and rests a hand on his face, disgusted when he feels a thick layer of sweat. His body is still spasming in the aftershocks of his fear, but his heart is starting to slow. He swallows and blinks again, then finds the children’s faces. Their hands are squeezing him, gently. “I am- I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to wake either of you.”

“That’s fine,” assures Yubello. “We slept most of the day anyway.”

He’s too numb to say anything when Yuliya flops down next to him, curling into the curve of his body. She doesn’t seem to care about the sweat, nor the way his body is still twitching. She reaches over and puts a tiny hand on his chest, then looks up at him. “We’ll cuddle you. That’ll make you feel better.”

“‘Cuddle,’” he repeats numbly. “I see.”

Yubello grabs the dislodged quilt and shifts over to his other side. He pulls the cover up and over them as he snuggles in next to Camus, and then his tiny voice asks, “How many more days until we get to Zofia?”

Camus keeps staring at the roof. Dimly through the ringing in his ears, he can hear the Dolhrians hooting and hollering as they stomp around. “The captain told me earlier today that the sailing has been smoother than expected. Hard to believe. But, it means we will be in Zofia in three days—two ahead of schedule.”

“Can we get food when we get off the ship?” Yuliya asks quietly.

“Food,” he repeats stupidly. He swallows. “We’ll get off the ship and we will find an inn. We are going to wash up, put on nice clothes, and then we are going to eat as much food as you would like.” He shuts his eyes and takes a deep, shaking breath that rattles his ribs. “And then we’re going to the castle, like I told you before.”

“And we’re gonna find someone who can take care of us.” Yubello rests his head against Camus’ shoulder. “And then you’re gonna go somewhere else.”

“The Zofians would be suspicious of me,” Camus whispers to the dark. “An adult. But, two children will be inconspicuous enough, especially after we’ve proved your heritage. I will still write to you.”

“We know.” Yuliya pats his chest with her little hand. “Go to sleep. It’ll be okay. Yubello and I will take care of you tonight and tomorrow.”

“What good children,” he whispers. There’s a warmth in his chest, but he’s too tired to fully register it. “Someone is going to be very lucky to have you.”

“It could be you,” reminds Yubello softly.

“No,” Camus replies. “It shouldn’t be.”

* * *

* * *

When he falls asleep this time, he hears the crashing of waves. He is in darkness, but when he blinks, he is standing on a seashore.

The sea is a sheet of green glass, tinged with sparkling blue. The sands are white, and the frothy waves spill onto the shore gently. The air is thick with the scent of sea salt; a mist sprays over his face, cool and refreshing. When he tilts his head back to appreciate it, he finds that the sky is a delicate blue, with only a few clouds drifting through it.

Odder still than all that is that there is a girl standing next to him.

She’s young, he can tell. Perhaps twenty at most, though he may peg her as a little younger. Her skin is a warm shade, and there are freckles dotting her body. Her hair is the color of some of the seafoam whisking its way to the shore: a soft, delicate green that puts him at ease just from seeing it. Her clothes are simple, only a red shawl over a black dress, but the style is unfamiliar to him. She’s thin, almost dreadfully so, and she is holding a gathering basket filled with shells and flowers in her hands.

The girl looks up at him, and her eyes are hollow.

Not hollow like some of the other specters in his dreams, where sometimes their eyes are only sockets, or else they are caving in as he watches. Her eyes are a shining hazel, beautiful and clear, but they are empty. Blank. As though she is numb. They look so horribly hollow, and Camus wonders if his eyes don’t also look that way.

The girl’s expression does not move, and it’s so easily that she raises a hand from her basket of flowers and shells towards him. The sea licks at their feet, soft and delicate. Inexplicably, Camus does not shy away as this girl rests her palm on his cheek, staring up at him with soft eyes. The wind ruffles the strands of hair around her face, and so slightly, she lowers her head to him the tiniest amount. Camus cannot pull his eyes from the shape of her lips, nor can he pull himself out of the warmth of her touch. Her thumb strokes the side of his face, and he shuts his eyes.

When he opens them, what feels like an eternity later, he finds her mouth moving, but the seabreeze is whisking her words away. Her hand lowers from him as the wind picks up, sending her flowers to the sky. Camus, silently, reaches for her vanishing hand, watching her lips move, but he can’t touch her. The waves rear up quietly next to them and come crashing down, swallowing the girl and her warmth whole.

* * *

* * *

“Tatiana, what are you doing down there?” someone is calling to her. “Did you get the flowers for the wedding?”

The wind pushes past Tatiana in a sudden gust, shoving her back into reality, and she blinks. Some of the flowers in her basket go flying through the windcurrents, and as the wind continues to push and pull, she lowers a hand to her skirt and lifts one to her hair. She blinks, staring out at the green sea through the tangle of her windswept hair, suddenly unable to remember what it was that had her so distracted a second before. Another strong gust yanks at her, so fierce that she takes a stumbling step towards the ocean.

“Tatiana!”

“‘m fine!” she calls back. After one more push of the wind, a gust so solid it feels almost like a hand slipping through her own, it stops suddenly. She blinks once more with a gasp, sweeping the unkempt strands of her hair away from her face as she looks out to the distant horizon. Small windstorms aren’t uncommon on the shore. She tries to tell herself it was nothing.

“What a gust!” the cleric standing at the crest above the shore is staring out at the sea as well, hands on her hips. “Well, no matter. Come along. Time to get excited for the wedding! It’s Allana’s big day.”

Excited. She hasn’t been excited in a while. She doesn’t know if she’s excited now.

Tatiana smiles as she climbs the slope, her bare feet sinking into the blend of sand and soft earth. The cleric brushes Tatiana’s hair back over her shoulder, huffing and fussing, mumbling so slightly under her breath at how black is such an unbecoming color for the day, and couldn’t she manage to find anything more colorful than that droll red? Tatiana keeps smiling, gently pushing flower stalks back into the basket. The cleric stops fussing over her dress and looks away, as though a little ashamed.

“What were you down by the seashore for, lass?” the cleric asks. Hesitantly, she looks down to the shells in the basket. “Are those for-?”

“I was going to take them to her later,” Tatiana replies, still smiling. She looks up at the blue sky, smiling, smiling, and smiling. “But I got distracted while getting them.”

They draw closer to the village setting up the festivities. The cleric scrunches up her nose in confusion. “By what? The ocean? You see that every darn day, Tatiana.”

“I know.” Tatiana pauses and looks over her shoulder, back at the shore. The wind, far gentler, blows again from behind her, and still she smiles. As of late, it feels like it’s all she can do. “It just felt so special today.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a couple more notes:
> 
>   * you can follow me at my tumblr over at [tatizekes,](http://tatizekes.tumblr.com) or you can follow my on twitter [@tatianalovemail](https://twitter.com/tatianalovemail) as well! i sometimes post wips and sprite edits and stuff, so feel free to swing by! 
>   * if you ever want any visual tatizeke insp or refs or anything like that, or even to see things i pin for my fics, i've got a fandom-specific pinterest board over [here](https://www.pinterest.com/tatizeke) that you can look at! 
>   * i made a playlist for this fic instead of editing it on tuesday, you can check it out over [here](https://8tracks.com/tatizeke/it-s-raining-somewhere-else)
>   * also very important. this version of Camus never got thrown in jail so he doesn't have a bad prison haircut and his hair is long and beautiful still. at least he has One Thing going for him
> 



	2. ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ny'all i just have to warn you that probably the first 4 chapters at least are going to be behemoths bc im too lazy to split them into separate chapters. especially bc i don't think anyone wants it to take 8 chapters for zeke and tatiana to actually meet lmao
> 
> also im sorry for taking so long to update this,, i went through some very unforeseen personal issues from about mid-May until really recently and they kinda threw my life into a garbage can. if you guys are following the progress of the tatizeke zine, that's why there hasn't been any updates on it in the past while. in addition, bc this is a big project for me, i wanna have a semi-regular update schedule, so im trying to get a few chapters ahead before i start posting regularly so i've just been writing ahead and stuff
> 
> in any case. thank you for the support on the first chapter!!!! you guys are always very sweet towards my work and are the reason why i'm still writing so fervently for this ship, 2+ years after the game's release. that and the fact that im. still wholly in love with them and need to feed myself content

There are two things that Camus learns when they finally dock in Zofia Harbor:

The first is that it’s hot. The weather in Archanea and Grust is fairly mild, even in the summer. In contrast, Zofia burns. When Camus brings the children up onto the deck, all of them weary and weak, the sun beats down on them ruthlessly. It’s humid, too, the air sticky and thick. As he looks down from the ship and surveys the harbor, none of the Zofians seem particularly bothered. These Valentians mill about with baskets slung over their shoulders, cloths over their heads, and shawls on their arms, unfazed by the sun.

Yubello and Yuliya groan and try to block out the sun with their hands. Camus leaves them to adjust to the brightness and heat while he moves their luggage to the docks. His body is weak and he’s starved, but he reminds himself that he is very close to having a decent meal and a good bed to sleep on. It’s enough to move him forward. The Dolhrians are at work as well, carrying their goods from the cargo hold to a variety of merchants.

Gradivus, when he retrieves it from the cabin last of all, hums to life. It doesn’t say anything, only letting him know that it is there. It makes a sound he can only interpret as complaint as he lays it on the bed, wraps the head of it in a thick cloth, and binds it with rope. Camus thinks the guards of the city would not be fond of him carrying a weapon out in the open.

“It’s so hot,” Yuliya complains when he returns to the deck. “And it’s bright.”

“It is.” Camus takes both Yuliya’s and Yubello’s hands and pulls them to their feet. Quietly, he guides them down the gangplank, passing a Dolhrian as he does so. Their eyes meet, the Dolhrian nods, and Camus presses his lips. The meaning is clear:

Their business is done. There is no going back.

This is it.

Yubello and Yuliya stumble on sturdy ground, visibly dizzy. They cling to one another as they wobble, and he’s glad to hear them giggling, if only a little. Weak and hungry they may be, but the sun and solid, steady ground seems to have brightened their moods for the moment.

“Alright.” Camus approaches their pile of luggage and hefts one, two, three of the bags over his shoulders ( _‘Excuse me,’_ Gradivus complains when a bag bumps it. _‘I am right here.’),_ and then picks up the largest trunk as well. It’s weighed down with gold and silver—he tries to make it look like it’s nothing that grand. “Pick up whatever you can, children. We are going to find an inn.”

“And food?” Yubello sounds hopeful.

“And then food,” Camus assures. “We need to find somewhere to sleep and store our belongings first.”

A young woman with a basket of fish in her arms and a child clinging to her skirt pauses as she passes by. She waves her hand to somewhere ahead of them. When she speaks, the language is fortunately the same as theirs, but her accent is thick. “There’s one down there, sir. Walk straight ahead, and it’s the third building on the right.”

“Ah,” Camus says, and Yubello and Yuliya reply “Thank you!” in unison. The woman smiles and continues on her way.

At the very least, their first interaction with a Zofian has been friendly.

Even weighed down like mules, they manage to carry all of the luggage on their own, though the children huff and grumble strained little “Heavy!”s on occasion. They’re all exhausted, but they are so close, he tells them. And, surely enough, they are. The inn is right where the woman said it would be. Made of brick and wood, the inside is lavish when they enter. There is someone at their side immediately with a helpful smile, offering to help them with their bags and trunks, and the children drop them with relieved groans.

“So many things,” the man marvels.

“Yes, thank you for noticing.” Camus smooths his tongue over his lips, grimacing at how dry the Zofian heat has made them. He also grimaces at the way the man stares at them, as though he’s never heard a Grustian accent before. Then again, for all he knows, he hasn’t. “How much for your largest room? We require the space.”

“Our largest room?” the man echoes, and he thinks for a moment. “Eight silver marks for an evening, my friend.”

“How much is that?” Yubello whispers to Yuliya. Camus hears her make a small “dunno” sound.

“We obviously are not from here,” Camus explains. “Ah- Are you aware of the conversion rate between Archanean money and your own? We- we really only just got here moments ago.”

The man’s eyes light up. “Archanean! I haven’t had an Archanean guest in a while. Pray tell, how do things fare over there?”

Camus swallows. He doesn’t want to think any further about how things fare in Archanea, now that weeks have passed. He doesn’t want a long conversation, and he thinks that letting the fact that the continent is in shambles slip wouldn’t result in any succinct interaction. So, he smiles and replies, “The same as always.”

“Wonderful to hear! It’s so odd that we haven’t seen any Archanean traders in a few months. But, nevermind that.” The innkeeper sets their begs to the side in a small lobby, then heads to his desk. “Now, let us see. How much do you have on you, sir?”

Camus leaves the trunk in the lobby. Yubello and Yuliya follow, and he urges them towards a set of chairs. “Stay right here and watch the luggage, children. I will be back momentarily.”

The rate of conversion is, unfortunately, not all that great for Camus. The large sum of silver drachma in his satchel comes out to only about three gold marks, thirty silver, and twenty copper. One of those gold marks is enough to get them a room for the evening. The metal of the Valentian coins glints in the light; he wonders if Valentian money is made of real gold and silver, rather than the brass and iron Archanean money is.

“Let me know if you need to stay another night,” the innkeeper tells them. He guides them down the hall to the very last room, unlocks it, and hands over the key. “You three look exhausted—let me send someone to get you a meal, included with your stay. We’ll have it to you in an hour’s time.”

“Food!” Yuliya exclaims brightly. “Thank you so much!”

“Yes, thank you. We’ll be here whenever it is ready.” Camus nods to him as they pass, laden down with their luggage, into their room. The innkeeper shuts the door behind them.

It seems comfortable, fortunately. There are two beds, just like on the boat, but they are significantly more plush. The window faces the ocean, and when Camus pushes it open, a cool, salty breeze blows over the three of them. Their luggage sits on the far side of the room. The children immediately flop down on the beds. Camus props Gradivus up in the corner, and it hums appreciatively.

_‘The Zofians… seem kind,’_ it notes. _‘And they have taste. I could… get comfortable here.’_

“Alas, we will not be here long,” he murmurs to it. “Just go back to sleep.”

From the bed, Yuliya marvels, “It’s so comfortable! And soft! And all these colors are so pretty.”

“The Zofians are fond of rich lifestyles,” Camus reminds. The room is indeed colorful, with fabrics hanging from the ceiling, dark wooden wardrobes and cabinets, and soft carpets. _“Very_ rich lifestyles.”

“I wanna go look around,” Yubello announces.

“You haven’t the energy,” Camus tells them. “You just think you do from the excitement.” He approaches the window again and pokes his head out, surveying the scene. The back area of the inn drops down into a different street entirely; there’s no chance someone could sneak into their room from the window, unless they were extremely stupid and extremely dedicated. “The innkeeper is having food brought to us, remember? Let us get cleaned up before our meal. We have a big day tomorrow, and we must be prepared.”

Yuliya stands from the bed and smooths down her dress, chin tilted up in an attempt to look once more like a princess. “Tomorrow we will go to the Zofian court, correct?”

“Quite so.” Camus pulls the windows closed, cutting off the sea breeze. He draws the blinds as well. “You will need to be on your best behaviors, Your Highnesses. Remember, we are trying to find you a new home. We must impress.”

“Do you think there’s really just gonna be somebody wanting to take in two kids?” Yuliya asks. “We are adorable, but. Two kids.”

“There are always people who want children.” Camus opens the wardrobe and starts to remove his traveling cloak. The children begin to remove their clothes as well. “I guarantee you, we will be able to find someone willing to take you in for whatever reason. We will find you the best place possible, where you can be comfortable and happy.”

“We’d be happier with you,” Yubello reminds, so soft as always.

“I explained to you on the boat,” he replies sharply, “I have no place in Zofia’s high society. I am but an outsider—you are foreign royalty.”

The children don’t look too enthused as this response, but they don’t carry on. Instead, they go peering out the window themselves, opening the doors to the wardrobes, and even checking under the beds. Camus watches them for but a moment, then scouts out the bathing room. To his surprise, he finds the tub already filled with water, hot to the touch when he dips his hand in. He wonders if someone didn’t prepare the bath as he was exchanging their money. Do they truly look that bedraggled?

Camus imagines there have never been children more eager for a bath. They come scampering into the washroom, eyes alight at the sight of the steaming tub, and start stripping their clothing. He takes the pieces of clothes as they discard them, folds them adeptly, and supervises them on their way to the tub. There aren’t any issues as they climb in, which is good—he’s known Yuliya in particular to slip on wet tile.

He helps, but at this age, they’ve become adept at bathing themselves and wave him off. He trusts them on their own, giggling and splashing the soapy water at one another, and takes a moment for himself out in the room. He can feel Gradivus focused in on him as he opens up a trunk and scrounges for clean clothes for them.

_‘We have made it,’_ it says. _‘Barely.’_

“Yes, thank you for pointing out the ‘barely’ part,” he quips. He finds the hem of a bright blue garment and tugs on it, pleased when he produces a sundress for the princess. “There. Clothes for the both of them.”

_‘You have faith… in your ability to find them homes?’_

“Yes.” Camus shuts the trunk and takes the clothes over to the bed, once more feeling a bit like one of their governesses as he smooths the clothes out atop the quilts. His hands sink into the mattress, and he thinks fondly about sleeping in a real bed in just a few hours. Maybe it will be soft enough that no ghosts come to haunt his head.

_‘Your plan?’_

“The best place to find them a home would be the Zofian court,” Camus replies. “My plan is to go and make ourselves known. I have all the documents and gold I need to prove their heritage. Isolationist as these Valentians are, I do not think they would turn away two small children after hearing of their plight.”

_‘Take it from me, my master. From me… and my long life.’_ Gradivus hums, louder than normal, as though especially beseeching his attention. Camus stands straighter and looks to the regalia, still bundled beneath its cloth. _‘Be cautious in all… you do. Be cautious with your own kind.’_

Camus swallows.

“Camus, we’re done with the water!” Yuliya’s voice comes from the washroom. He hears splashing as they pull themselves from the tub. “Come clean up before they bring the food.”

_‘But I am sure… it will all turn out,’_ Gradivus carries on, its tone suddenly lighter. _‘Listen not to… this old fool, Camus of Grust. Not… if you think yourself powerful enough to stand above your kind and their dishonesty… that is.’_

“Go back to sleep,” Camus urges. “For all we know, you may see some usage tomorrow.”

He sees a faint sheen of red light from beneath the cloth, then nothing. The hum is gone, and he blinks and shakes his head as the children come from the washroom, cheery despite everything. He hasn’t seen them so awake and alert in what feels like weeks.

He doesn’t take long to wash himself. A quick dip in the tub is all he needs; a splash of water over his head, some soap on his hair and body, a quick scrub all over, and all is well. A quick dip, but the water is so warm and pleasant that he thinks he could soak for an hour or so. But, no time, and he does have children to look after. He gets out and towels himself off, noticing in the mirror that he has the beginnings of a beard lining his jaw. He grimaces and rubs at it, staring himself down, and narrows his eyes. Camus isn’t appreciative of how gaunt, pale, and pitiful he looks.

He turns away from himself.

“Clean clothes!” Yuliya extolls when he comes out. Yubello, dressed in a fresh outfit himself, is pulling a brush through her drying hair for her. They both look happy like this, clean and well-dressed. “We got some out for you too.”

Indeed, he finds a pair of trousers and a loose white blouse dumped on the bed, laid out with thought, but no elegance. It’s honestly not as refined an outfit as he would have chosen, but honestly, dressing down in just a shirt and pants sounds like a welcome break from thick clothes and wool shawls, intended to keep them warm on the colder nights at sea. He picks up the shirt and stares at it, then notes that the window is open. The sounds of the market come flooding in, as bright and cheerful as any sounds in any Grustian market.

He had just been telling them so to keep them satisfied, but perhaps the children really will be happy here.

Yubello gets the door when there’s a knock, just as Camus finishes pulling his blouse on. Next to him, holding at one of his arms as he lowers it, is Yuliya, bouncing on her feet with excitement as Yubello lets in a man and woman, each carrying a tray. Though both are covered, the scent of whatever is underneath comes through, meaty and delicious. Camus looks down to Yuliya, still bouncing, and she looks up at him.

“May I give them money?” she asks quietly. Camus tilts his head, and she explains, “I never got to give money to the servants back home! I want to have an adult transaction. That’s what Reiden said exchanging money was.”

“Did he say that?” Camus muses. He takes a glance to where the man and woman are setting up the table with food while Yubello watches with wide eyes, then over to where he set the money pouch on a desk. “A silver and copper each will be appropriate, Yuliya.”

Clearly giddy, Yuliya makes for the bag. Camus sighs, squeezes the bridge of his nose, and heads over to the table. Yubello looks up at him as he rests a hand on his shoulder, then turns his attention to the food again.

“Long way from home,” the woman notes. She sets the final plate of food down on the table and picks up her tray, tucking it against her chest. “What brings you folks all the way to Zofia Harbor?”

“Pleasure,” Camus lies. He wraps his arm around Yubello and pulls the boy closer as he keeps a watchful eye on Yuliya. “Just a vacation.”

“Odd of ye to come to Zofia for pleasure right now.” The man smiles as Yuliya offers him the coins, gratefully accepting them as she pushes them to his palm. “Perilous times, these.”

“‘Perilous?’” Yubello echoes. “What’s that mean, Camus?”

Camus’ chest is starting to feel funny: tight and hollow. “It means dangerous and unpleasant, Yubello. Whatever would cause these times to be unpleasant, sir? I was under the impression that Zofia was a land of bounty and peace.”

“Ain’t it normally,” he replies. “It’d be peachy-keen, if it weren’t for them bloody Rigelians.”

“Oh, we oughtn’t bother you when you’re about to eat,” the woman says. Like her companion, she smiles as she takes the coins from Yuliya, then sends her off with a pat to her head. “You wouldn’t want to hear any unpleasantries when you’re about to have a meal. The Mother knows you need it, too.”

“I would have the news, if you are willing to give it.”

The workers eye the children nervously, then look back to Camus. He can feel Yubello’s uncomfortably heavy heartbeat under his hand, and as she wanders behind him, there is also a tense air coming off of Yuliya. It is here that Camus learns the second thing about Zofia:

“Well, you see, sir… It’s just that- that the Rigelians have invaded us.”

“Bloody dogs,” the man spits, not even a beat after she has finished speaking and before Camus can react. “The savages want our food!”

“They’re starving,” the woman chides. “Even savages should get to eat.”

Camus feels his lip twitch. An unsettled feeling stirs in his stomach. The Zofians are starting to seem a little less hospitable.

“Our food is our food,” the man insists. “And they can try to take it by force, but they ain’t getting it. Dogs aren’t any match for the Knights of Zofia.”

“An invasion, is it?” Camus flicks his tongue over his lips and lets Yubello go. “Would you call it war?”

The woman opens her mouth to speak, but the man scoffs and speaks over her. “The only reason we’re struggling is because the king sent out green recruits to try and handle it. The second he sends out Sir Clive and the knights, those dogs are done for.”

“Though, the Rigelians are known for their war tactics,” the woman interjects. “They’re savage fighters. Oh, sir, don’t you know? Rigelians are blood-thirsty! They have their children swinging swords as soon as they can walk! And it’s no surprise they’ve finally snapped.”

From behind, Yuliya grabs the hem of his shirt. Her little hand is shaking.

“You folks haven’t a thing to worry about,” the woman assures hastily. “It’s not a war. It’s just a few scuffles at the border. So long as you stay in the capital city on your trip, all will be well.”

“We’re safe here,” Yubello echoes, his eyes boring into the Zofians. “We’re safe?”

“Just so, son,” the man says. “The Knights of Zofia won’t let anything bad happen to anyone here in the city.”

“Are the Rigelians really violent?” Yuliya asks quietly.

“The most vicious,” the woman replies. “Barbarians they are. But, there are no worries here. Sir Clive keeps us safe from those brutes.” She frowns. “Still, I have pity for them. I know that they’re a savage sort of people, but I think everyone deserves to eat. I do wish King Lima would’ve just let them have some of our food.”

“Our food is our food,” the man insists once more. “It’s their fault for followin’ that damnable demon.”

Behind him, Camus feels Yuliya seize up. He clears his throat loudly. “Thank you for the news. If you do not mind, we will be taking our meal now.”

“Oh, yes!” The woman bows her head politely and follows the grumbling man towards the door. “Ring for anything else you need.”

Camus nods. He keeps his eyes on them until the door shuts, and when it does, there’s a hush over the room. That is, until Yubello whispers, “Is the entire world on fire?”

“I do not know,” Camus replies, just as quietly. “Let us eat. There is no use in thinking about what we cannot control.”

The children sit stiffly, obediently. Camus follows in suit, groaning wearily as he sinks into the chair. Yubello and Yuliya remove the covers from the dishes, revealing plates of whole fried fish, small meatballs, fresh bread topped with vegetables and oil, some pork, and a soup. It’s a full, hearty meal—Camus wonders if all Zofians eat like this. He wonders if this is how they all get to eat, then why they were not able to spare the Rigelians a single plate.

“Fish!” Yubello’s hand darts to a plate, and he picks up a tiny, fried fish by the tail. Camus thinks most children would be averse to eating an entire fish, eyes and all, but the children are so hungry that they don’t seem to mind anything on the table. They dig in, and he watches. Though hungry, his stomach is turning.

“Those Rigelians sound really mean,” Yuliya says as Camus fills her plate. “It’s the Zofian’s food, right?”

Camus presses his lips as he drags a knife through a chunk of bread. He looks at it, unsettled as he thinks of all the humans in Medeus’ Archanea who would literally kill for it. He feels unsettled as he thinks of these Rigelians who are killing for it. He puts a slice onto Yuliya’s plate. “It is, but it seems to me that the Zofians have an excess. I think it would not hurt them to share their food.”

“But what if they do share, and then they don’t have enough?”

“A predicament indeed,” Camus says. “I have no answers for you. I would urge you to continue thinking about this. Zofia is your home now, and it is up to you to decide what is right, and what is wrong.”

Nervously, Yubello and Yuliya look to each other. Camus finally stacks his own plate of food, but eats it slowly as he supervises the children. Silently, he wonders how he could have possibly brought them from a war-ravaged continent to another, then thinks of a saying the farmers back in Grust would teach him:

Out of the frying pan, into the fire.

* * *

* * *

The three take no time to sightsee, nor to acclimate to Zofia. Camus feels that they have no time, especially given the previous day’s news. When he gets the children up in the morning, he gets to work on them. He’s no caretaker, but he knows how to make them look like royalty: He draws hot water for a bath and washes them. He brushes their hair until it is smooth and soft, and takes a pair of scissors to Yubello’s when he asks for a cut. He helps them into their nicest clothes, ensures that Yuliya’s hair ribbon is firmly in, and that Yubello’s neckcloth is properly arranged.

And, when he is done with them, Camus gets himself in order. He shaves. He washes his hair again and ties it low, at the nape of his neck, with a red ribbon. He puts on his own nicest clothing—a black waistcoat and a red cape—and ensures there’s no flaw or wrinkle in his appearance. And, most importantly, he looks a saber around his waist and takes Gradivus from the corner of the room.

“We’re just walking up to the castle?” Yuliya asks.

Camus is crouched by a trunk, removing a few papers, some trinkets, things that he hopes will solidify their royal blood. If the Zofians need more, he can always come back for more; he has a trunk’s worth of proof, after all. “Yes.”

“Don’t we need to be invited to the castle?” Yubello presses.

“Of course not.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have Gradivus.”

“Are you… gonna hurt someone?”

“Only if they make me.”

Yubello does not question this further.

The palace is about a mile away from their inn, but walking through the crowded streets, it seems even further than that. It seems like an insurmountable distance to the children he’s sure, given that they’ve been cramped in a tiny boat for the past forty days. But he takes them by the hands and guides them through the streets, ensuring they don’t get lost in the sea of Zofians, and they don’t complain. If anything, they just look more stressed and nervous the closer they get to the palace. He supposes that if he were about to be presented before strangers he’d never met before, all in the hopes of finding someone to take him in, he’d be nervous as well.

Camus doesn’t have any doubts that they’ll find them a comfortable home, however. Yubello and Yuliya are good children, well-mannered and polite. And, in Camus’ experience, there are always people willing to take in children with nowhere else to call home, even among those who can be self-centered and paranoid, such as nobility. On top of the children’s mannerisms, they also have royal blood. If class is truly so valuable in Valentia, they’ll find no one of higher class than them.

When he looks down at the children, they look more nervous with every passing second. Yubello tightens his grip on Camus’ hand as he looks around, and Yuliya looks purely distrusting of everyone around her. He thinks that perhaps it’s finally settling in on the two of them that this is their world now. A world in which everyone is a stranger, no one knows who they are, and where the culture is so far-removed from what they know. But they’ll be fine, and he tells them so. They don’t look that relieved.

There are no guards at the entrance to the Zofian palace. A passerby tells them that it’s because the front courtyard is open to the public, for people to peruse the gardens and architecture. When Camus asks how they get through the doors into the castle itself, their informant looks perplexed and tells him that, unless you are a noble or else invited, you simply can’t.

Camus supposes they’ll have to walk right in.

“They said we can’t go in,” Yubello protests as Camus pulls them towards the doors. The boy digs his heels into the ground, stubborn and mildly green. “We can’t just walk in.”

“Of course we can.”

“They’ll understand,” Yuliya says.

“I don’t think they will,” Yubello says in the smallest voice.

There isn’t anyone in the courtyard, save for three people standing in a circle and conversing. They’re all dressed in elegant clothes, and he imagines they’re probably occupants of the castle. Two of them—a man and a woman—are blonde and pale, though the silver-haired man next to them looks as though he’s never gotten an ounce of sunlight in his life. Camus holds the children’s hands and eyes them warily as they walk past, heading straight for the doors that lead into the castle.

“Excuse me?”

“I told you so,” Yubello whispers.

Camus stops and looks over his shoulder. The blond man has stopped them with just a couple of words, and he’s staring at them with a clearly baffled expression. The other two look just as perplexed. Camus presses his lips as he notices sabers hanging from their belts. Too elegantly dressed to be common soldiers; he’s gotten himself tangled up with bonafide knights.

“I’m sorry, but the castle isn’t open to the public,” the man explains. “Can we help you?”

“We just need to go inside,” Camus explains shortly. He turns fully and looks down at the children. “I am looking for someone to take care of these children. They are-”

“The castle isn’t an orphanage,” the other man spits. “The nerve!”

“It is a special circumstance,” Camus continues. “If you would allow us in and hear us out, we could explain.”

“Perhaps in another context, we could allow that, but with tensions being what they are…” The blond man hesitates, then shakes his head. “We will have to ask you to turn around. If you are looking for somewhere to take these children, the cathedral in the city has been known to take in orphans.”

What they’re saying is understandable—Camus wouldn’t just let any random stranger waltz into the Grustian palace, especially not during a fight with a foreign power. He understands, but he can’t back down. Not when he’s come this far. These children deserve the best that they can get, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t give it to them.

“I am not willing to budge on this matter,” he says. He releases the twin’s hands, and they slowly inch behind him as he reaches for Gradivus.

“If we need to send you packing the hard way, then so be it.” The silver-haired man reaches for his saber and unsheathes the blade. “This should be fun.”

Camus pulls Gradivus from his back, and off slides the fabric keeping it hidden. The black blade catches the sunlight, and suddenly, he senses some apprehension from the knights. He uses the few seconds of hesitation to size them up, and-

-and the woman moves so quickly he nearly doesn’t block her in time.

She lunges forward, shouting as she draws her own blade. Camus grimaces and throws Gradivus up, clasping it in both hands out in front of him as she comes bearing down. Her sword collides with Gradivus, landing just between his hands, and she sends him stumbling back two steps. Behind, he hears Yubello and Yuliya shriek with some surprise, but no panic. He knows they have too much faith in him to be panicked.

Camus grunts and shoves her back, sending her stumbling away. Her heel catches on a cobblestone, but her companion in blue catches her elbow, righting her easily. The silver-haired knight keeps his eyes fixed on Camus, circling the conflict, as though he only feels he needs to jump in when the opponent proves himself worthy.

In the back of Camus’ mind, Gradivus hums to life. _‘Oh… fine.’_

They’re fast, and better than he anticipated. But, they’re not striking to kill. He responds in kind. When he swings, it’s with the flat side of Gradivus. He doesn’t get many hits in, but when he does, they grunt and go stumbling away, looking as perplexed as ever, like they also didn’t expect him to be this good.

There is something about no one in this land knowing him—no one having any expectations of him—that feels good.

The woman takes a swipe at him with her sword, jabbing in just past Gradivus. Camus hisses through his teeth as the steel comes within inches of him, and he swings his weapon up. Immediately, he catches her blade with Gradivus’ hilt and sends it flying from her hands, and then he thinks: this is too easy. She has let him disarm her so easily, and why? The answer comes only seconds later, just as he’s lowering his arms back down. He hears Yuliya shriek, “Camus!” and feels the burning touch of a blade slicing through his coat and against his flesh. The wound is by no means deep—the blond man, thrusting at him right in his blind spot, clearly has no intentions of seriously wounding him. But a cut is a cut, and Camus’ body reacts.

He shouts slightly and loosens his grip on Gradivus, and that’s all they need. The man kicks at him, getting him right in the side below his new cut, and Camus spasms and lets go of Gradivus. It goes flying to the side, near a bed of flowers, and he hears an annoyed buzz in his head, as though Gradivus is chastising him for literally losing his grip like an amateur. There’s a difference between fighting sea beasts and men, though, and it’s been some months since Camus crossed blades with the latter. He’s rusty.

Just before Gradivus hits the ground, the woman rushes towards it. He admires her reflexes, the way she so easily catches the hilt in her hand, and were this any other weapon, he’d be worried about her turning it on him. She makes a triumphant sound, closes her fingers around Gradivus, and starts to make her way towards him again. But then, she lets out a strained squeak as her arm doesn’t follow the rest of her movement. She stumbles backwards with a shocked noise as Gradivus keeps falling to the ground, taking her with it. He watches her, smug, as she sits there on the ground, momentarily confused as she keeps pulling at the weapon, only for it to not budge an inch.

_‘Try again… in thirty years,’_ Gradivus mumbles.

The knight in blue shouts for her—“Mathilda!” he calls—exactly as Camus hears another shriek from behind him. It’s again from the twins, but it isn’t surprise this time. He jumps and presses a hand to his wound, turning to see what the matter is. It takes him a brief second to find where they’ve gone, and then he spots them by the stairs leading to the castle doors. They’re huddled together, trembling, as a lanky man stands behind them and holds a blade to their necks.

“Knock it off.” The man grins. His long face is weasel-ish as he does so, and his long, greasy brown hair doesn’t do much to make him look any better. “Or I’ll run these brats through. I bet you wouldn’t like that, huh?”

Camus scowls, lets go of his wound, and instead pries his own sword from its sheath. “Or I could just kill you.”

The man’s grin grows. “Could you now?”

“Slayde, they’re children!” Mathilda snaps at him. She’s given up on picking up Gradivus and has wobbled to her feet with the help of her companion. “This is low, even for you.”

“You just don’t know how to look for the easiest way out,” Slayde replies. He rests a hand on Yubello’s shoulder and jerks him closer to Yuliya. “Now, come on, tough guy. What’s it gonna be?”

Camus holds his breath as he weighs his options. He could kill this Slayde, but there are a few consequences. Firstly, he doesn’t know how fast Slayde is, and now that Camus has warned him of his possible demise, he could be further primed to slit the twin’s throats the second Camus moves wrong. And, perhaps more pressingly, he and the children both will be considered enemies to Zofia if he kills one of their knights. If he throws down his sword, there’s a chance he’ll be arrested, and he can’t plea to self-defense; he drew his weapon first.

Yet, this seems to be his best option.

Camus clenches his jaw, opens his hand, and lets his saber drop. It hits the cobblestone with a dull clank. Slayde’s grin grows ever wider, his small eyes glittering with glee, but he doesn’t take his blade away from the children’s throats. Yubello and Yuliya are holding their breaths, he can tell, and their faces are going very pale.

“I’ll just be holding onto these brats until this is all settled,” Slayde says. “Leverage, you see.”

“I insist that you take your sword away from them at once,” Camus snaps back. “They’re eight. What are they going to do to you? Are you so scared of two small children that you need to keep yourself armed?”

Slayde’s face goes pink, then scarlet. He draws his lips back in a snarl and reaches around Yubello to tighten his arm around them. The children squeak and Camus sees nervous tears start to fill Yubello’s eyes.

“You watch your mouth with me, you rat,” Slayde spits. “Just for that, I’m-!”

He stops with a sudden, wheezing gasp, drops his sword at the children’s feet, and stumbles forward as the silver-haired knight jams the hilt of his saber against the back of his neck. He must have moved silently and quickly, because Camus didn’t notice him coming up behind him at all, and Slayde must have not either. Slayde wobbles on his feet, blinking rapidly; Yubello shrieks as he starts to topple forward, but the knight grabs Slayde’s collar and yanks him back.

“They’re children,” the knight snaps, scowling down at Slayde as he falls onto his backside. “You little fiend.”

Slayde grunts and reaches up to rub his neck, mumbling, “Fernand, you motherfu-”

“If you finish that sentence, I’ll whack you again,” Fernand warns. He sighs, shakes his head, then looks down at the children, up to Camus, then down at them again. His face morphs into a smile of all things. “Now then. That was unpleasant, wasn’t it?”

Camus presses his lips and exhales deeply through his nose. The cut at his side is stinging, and he reaches to place a hand on it. Yubello and Yuliya scamper to him as he does this, away from the hand that Fernand reaches towards them, and immediately hold to his cape. Camus grunts as Yuliya places her little hand a bit too close to his wound, but makes no mention of this to her. He sweeps his free arm around the children, ensuring they stay close to him as Mathilda and her partner get their bearings once more.

He opens his mouth to say something, but Yuliya cuts him off, blurting out, “Please don’t take him away!”

The knight in blue has Mathilda’s arm over his shoulders. He crinkles his nose and regards Yuliya, then his expression softens. “I do apologize, young lady, but he did attack us. We can’t just-”

Yuliya grits her teeth, puts on her most petulant and irritated expression, and then rips one hand away from Camus to jab an accusing finger at the man. “He was holding back! _You_ were the ones who hurt _him!”_

“Yuliya!” Yubello hisses fearfully. “Be nice to them!”

“No!” Yuliya stamps her feet and keeps waving her little finger at the knights. “Camus didn’t hurt anyone. You can’t take him away!”

“Yuliya.” Camus rests a hand on the top of her head, and though she shrinks against him as he does so, he can see her still glaring at the knights. “That is enough.”

Mathilda pulls her arm off of her partner’s shoulders, grimacing as she does so. She’s not wounded, but her arm must have been jerked around badly from Gradivus refusing to budge in her expectant grip. “I think maybe we should hear them out.”

“At the least,” Fernand says, “we can’t put them somewhere that Slayde will be able to deal with them. No cells, that means.”

From the ground, Slayde speaks up. “Why should we hear them out? We should arrest the fool and send the kids packing! Who cares?”

“I think you should leave, Slayde,” Fernand says. “And if you do not, I will make you.”

“Leave,” Mathilda’s partner says. “That’s an order from me. You’re not to have anything to do with this affair.”

Slayde wobbles to his feet, spitting out what Camus is certain are curses under his breath, and takes shaky steps towards the entrance of the castle. He turns his head, glaring down at Camus as he ascends the stairs, and sneers when he glares right back.

Camus does not have the most overwhelmingly grand impression of the Zofian nobility.

* * *

* * *

“So you mean to say that these children are the prince and princess of… some place called Grust?”

Camus thinks he has the names of the knights memorized at this point: Clive, Fernand, and Mathilda. Though they’d spent the carriage ride to Clive’s estate in an awkward silence, save for Fernand chatting with the children, they’d at least had the courtesy to exchange names. They keep looking at him distrustfully, however, even in this sitting room that Camus knows is heavily guarded by soldiers right outside the door. Clive appears to be a man of high standing, if the sheer luxury of his house is anything to go by.

“You may look it up on any map,” Camus replies pointedly. “‘Tis the easternmost island on the continent of Archanea.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Fernand interjects. He crosses his arms and legs, his nose crinkled as he scrutinizes Camus. He seems fond enough of the twins, but still suspicious of him. “It’s considered the military powerhouse of Archanea. We learned about the Grustian Sable Order in our studies, remember?”

“So you’ve heard of the Sable Order.” Camus crosses his arms, mirroring Fernand. “I was the captain.”

This seems to nab Clive’s attention. He blinks at him, as though baffled, and says, “You are that Camus? Camus the Sable, the infamous Archeanean general?” He presses his lips, then turns them downwards. “I can hardly believe that.”

Camus’ gut turns—he doesn’t know how he feels about being known about, even on another continent. He’s a man looking to vanish, not regain fame. “May I ask again where the children are?”

“They’re with Clive’s little sister in the room over,” Mathilda assures. “Clair is a responsible girl, and I’m sure she’s keeping them well-entertained.”

Clive presses on immediately when she’s done talking. “You truly mean to say you are that Camus?”

He feels sick. “Yes, that is the right of it.”

Mathilda leans back in her seat and gestures vaguely. “Even so, you expect us to believe this story you’ve told about- about some evil empire conquering the continent?”

Camus opens his mouth, but Fernand cuts him to the chase. “A continent-wide conflict would explain why we’ve had such scarce trading with them as of late, though. It does make some sense, though far-fetched.” Fernand regards Camus again. “What of the Archanean royal family? Aren’t they in possession of some heirloom that is meant to be used in this sort of emergency?”

His stomach sinks. Camus blinks once, twice, and then for a second, the sitting room around him disappears. Once more he’s on the steps of the Millenium Court’s throne room, prone as Nyna looms over him, her cold hands ripping into his chest. The sound of her mother’s screams rings in his head again, and he cannot tear himself away from the chilling blue of Nyna’s eyes as she asks: Why? Why? Why would you let them do this to me?

“Sir Camus?”

Head ringing, Camus reaches up and presses at his eyes. He shakes his head and works out of his tight throat, “They perished.”

“May the Mother bless their souls,” Mathilda murmurs. “And so, if this empire has conquered Archanea with the intent of enslaving the populace, how have you escaped here?”

He can’t push Nyna out of his mind now, but he manages to say, “We were lucky to stow away on a ship. There is nothing more to it than pure luck.” He shuts his eyes. “My only desire was to save the children where I failed all else. So, I brought them here.” He opens his eyes and fixes them on Clive, and it suddenly occurs to him that this must be _the_ Sir Clive he’s been told of. “But I am told Zofia is plagued by conflict as well.”

“It’s nothing major,” Clive replies, a little too hasty. “A scuffle at the border with the Rigelians. Chancellor Desaix is attempting to put it to rest now.”

Mathilda turns in her chair to glare out the window. “Yes, because we all know how reliable Desaix is.”

“The king trusts him,” Clive defends, though Camus thinks his tone implies that he’s not any happier than Mathilda. “Hopefully the situation gets no worse. Zofia will be back to her prosperity and peace shortly.”

“So if I were to leave the children here,” Camus says, “no harm would befall them?”

“It would take quite a war for the Rigelians to reach Ethria,” Fernand claims. “But that brings us to the point: where do you think the children will go?”

Camus’ stomach drops again. He reaches for his bag at his side, opens it, and rummages about until he finds the slips of papers he needs. “This documentation should prove their lineage. As I understand it, Valentians are focused on status. Even if they have fled the country, they are still of royal blood. Surely there is someone in your court willing to take in two well-bred children?”

The three look at one another, so hesitantly that Camus’ stomach drops even further. He thinks to add in that the children are mild-mannered and dutiful, that they won’t cause trouble, but before he opens his mouth, the door to the room opens. A young woman’s voice says, “Oh, Clive, Aunt Estella would love these two!”

Camus turns in his seat, awash with relief as he finds the twins standing by the door, holding to the skirt of a young lady. She’s tall, fair, with high cheekbones and wavy blonde hair. She looks much like Clive, right down to the blue she wears, and he presumes this is his younger sister. Yubello and Yuliya seem to like her; they’re smiling, eyes glittering as they look at the girl.

“Clair,” Clive greets. He holds out a hand towards Camus. “This is Sir Camus of Grust. He-”

“I know, I know.” Clair waves her hand as she approaches, the children on her heels. “The children told me all. If they need a home, I think Aunt Estella and Aunt Hildegard would love them. They have been looking to adopt.”

“Your aunts? Are the suited to care for two children?” Camus asks. “I will not leave them with anyone unprepared to care for them.”

“They’re lovely, Mathilda assures. She looks more at ease than she was, now that a solution has been presented. Again, she looks to Clive and Fernand. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t allow Estella and Hildegard to take them in.”

“If they live that close, perhaps they could make friends with my siblings,” Fernand proposes. “They are nearly the same age.”

Camus squeezes his hands together.

He really is going to leave them.

“Can Camus stay?” Yuliya sits down next to Camus, then leans over to rest her head on his arm. “He thinks he can’t, but he could, right?”

“Well.” Clive again looks nervous. “I- I can’t say whether or not the king would like that. What Desaix will think would be a problem as well. Sir Mycen, the last foreigner to become a Knight of Zofia… was removed from his station.”

Yuliya puffs out her cheeks and squeezes her knees. “But Camus-!”

“I need no place here,” Camus assures. Yuliya turns her eyes up towards him, both defiant and sad. His heart twinges. “There is no need to find one for me, my princess.”

“But I want you to stay too!” Yubello reaches up and grabs Clair’s hand. “The people here are nice, and- and I”m sure they’d let you stay.”

“I am not looking to be a knight again,” Camus says, hoping he sounds firm, even though his words are sticking to his tongue uncomfortably. It’s hard to spit out.

If Camus is not a knight, then who is he?

* * *

* * *

Lady Estella has red hair and blue eyes, though Camus can pick out Clive and Clair’s relation to her in the shape of her nose. She’s an elegant woman, tall and thin like a willow, with soft hands that speak to nary a day of hardship in recent memory. She smiles very much, especially at Yuliya and Yubello, and speaks in a quiet, delicate voice. Her wife, Lady Hildegard, is a large woman in a military uniform, with choppy blue hair. She’s gone most of the time Camus is in their home, but when she appears, she grins at the children and rubs their heads before departing again for work.

They spend a week in Lady Estella’s manor, right outside of Ethria and situated on a cliff overlooking the ocean. It’s a beautiful estate, surrounded by an ocean breeze and rolling green hills, and Camus thinks there are far worse places to leave the children. The servants are attentive and kind, the house is well-run, and the children seem comfortable in the presence of Lady Estella and her wife.

Lady Estella tends to the children’s every whim. She asks what they want to eat, and the cooks make it for them. She asks what gifts they want, and she takes them into town to buy them. She runs her fingers through their fine blonde hair, smiles, and shows them about her home. She holds their hands when a storm rolls in and darkens the manor.

When Camus asks, “Do you like Lady Estella and Lady Hildegard?” he already knows how they’ll respond.

Yuliya stands on the guest bed provided to her and Yubello, smiling brighter than he’s seen in quite a while. Her nightgown is pink and lacy, her hair braided with a fine ribbon, and she looks like a princess once more. “She’s so nice! Right?”

Yubello, already tucked into bed, looks up at Camus with a small smile. “She is. I think she really likes us, and so does Lady Hildegard.”

“I see.” Camus plucks Yuliya up beneath her arms, smiling as she giggles and kicks her feet. Yubello pulls the covers next to him back, and Camus deposits her against the pillows. She keeps laughing, even as he picks up the corner of the blanket and pulls it over her. “Well, I believe she likes you as well.”

Yubello turns his head against the pillow to see him better. “What have you been doing all week?”

“Not much,” he replies. “Only roaming the city to find supplies for my travels.”

“Where are you gonna go?”

A good question.

“Nowhere in particular.” Camus pulls the blankets further up around the children, until Yuliya begins to squirm and huff that she’s been tucked in _quite_ enough, thank you. “As soon as I have seen you settled, I shall be on my way.”

“I hope we stay here.” Yuliya grips the top of the covers in her little hands and huddles further beneath. “But also… I don’t want you to leave.”

“We have established that very well.” Camus reaches up to the oil lamp above their bed. “Anything before I leave for the evening, Your Highnesses?”

“No.”

“Then, sleep well.”

Camus turns the lamp’s knob, and the light diminishes with a soft click. Another light on the far end of the room keeps it illuminated enough for their comfort. The two of them shut their eyes, though he feels them watching him when he leaves the room.

“Are they sleeping now?” Lady Estella moves silently, and Camus jumps as she seemingly appears next to him from thin air.

He places a hand on his chest, idly smoothing down his coat. “N-no, madam. I’ve only just left them for the night. They will likely be up a while longer.”

Estella crooks a finger and places it to her chin. “I see.” She looks to the door. “A small rainshower is moving in tonight. I hope they fall asleep before the clouds cover the moon. I’ve never seen children so afraid of the dark.”

“They have reason.” Camus takes a step past her, adjusting his cuffs. “The war was terrible.”

“I can only imagine.” She turns on her heel slowly and glances at him over her shoulder. Her red hair spills down her back in silken sheets, and she fixes him underneath her ice blue eyes. “It must have been terrible for you as well, Camus of Grust.”

His heart pumps twice, harsh and panicked, and his mouth dries up. Camus blinks and takes a step back, and when he opens his eyes again, Estella’s blue eyes are Nyna’s. He blinks again, and then _she_ is standing there instead of Estella, in her elegant white gown, the jewels in her hair glimmering under the lamplight, staring at him with a painfully hollow expression. It might be disdain. It might be pity.

“Camus of Grust,” Nyna says in a voice like a sneer.

Camus reaches up and all but slaps his hands over his eyes, quaking as he takes another step back.

“Sir Camus?” Estella places her hands on his arms, her eyes her own once more when Camus looks down at her. “Sir Camus, are you unwell in some way?”

“I am well,” he says, only on reflex. His stomach is sinking lower. “Merely- merely-”

“I think you could do with some air,” she gently tells him. “You do look pale, sir. Why not take a turn around the estate before that rain comes in?”

“Perhaps.” Camus squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Yes, perhaps I will.”

“There’s a splendid view of the city just over the cliff out front. Go clear your head. I’ll be here if the children need anything.”

“Yes,” he mumbles again. “Yes, thank you.”

The cliff overlooking Ethria is directly outside of the door he stumbles out of. The shade of the night sky is warm, still basking in the remnants of the sunset. A brisk wind whips the long grass in the courtyard around his ankles, and tousles his hair. Still short of breath, Camus wheezes as he clutches his chest, blindly making his way to the cliff’s edge.

When he looks down, it’s a long way to the ground below.

Lightning crackles in the far distance, over the sea. The rumble of thunder is bare and vague; though the wind is strong, it will be a while until the storm rolls in. The breeze echoes in his ears, and he has to squint against it in order to see ahead. The lights of Ethria are bright, especially around the castle, but they don’t move him. They don’t calm him. His head isn’t feeling any clearer.

Camus of Grust.

His chest feels so tight. Gasping, he pulls at the front of his coat, clumsily pulling apart the buttons and clasps. It’s no easier to breathe when it falls open, billowing behind him, but it does give him some sense of freedom. His hair catches in the corners of his mouth, but he ignores it. He clutches one edge of his coat as he pants, staring downwards at the ground below.

How far of a fall is that? Twenty feet? Thirty?

“You look like a mess.” Nyna is standing on the edge of the cliff, her hair and skirts whipping about her as she faces the wind. “How unusual for you, my heart.”

“I have no desire to see ghosts,” Camus whispers, his words lost in the wind.

Nyna spares him a tiny glance, a smile playing on her pale lips. “Then perhaps you should not have all but handed me to Medeus on a silver platter.”

“I didn’t want to!” he protests. “I didn’t know-!”

“That he was strong enough to come for me?” Nyna sighs and tilts her head back, shaking it. “Fool.”

His shirt is constricting around him. Wheezing, his fingers travel from the edge of his coat into the gaps between the buttons on his shirt. He pulls them open frantically, desperate to breathe. HIs vision is blurring, but he can see her clearly. So clearly.

Nyna looks down. “Do you want to jump?”

Camus swallows.

“Do you want to join your rose, my love?” Nyna turns and holds out her hands to him. The wind pushes past her, drawing her clothes and hair towards him. “Do you want to come and be with me again?”

“Yes,” he breathes.

Nyna smiles, radiant. “But you are a pathetic craven, Sir Camus of Grust.”

Camus sets his hands in hers, and she bursts apart like glass.

A hand clamps down on the back of his shirt collar. Camus gasps as the world comes back into focus, and he only has a moment to realize he’s hovering just over the edge of the cliff before he’s heaved back. He stumbles, hands shaking, and shrinks away from the cloaked person standing on the cliff with him. The figure pulls back their hood, staring at Camus with pity.

* * *

* * *

A grandfather clock ticks somewhere off to the side. Camus sits on a dark red couch in a sitting room, blankly staring ahead as he picks at a loose thread on his cuffs. His clothes are in place again, and he’s tied his hair back, but he feels anything but orderly.

The clunk of boots drags his attention upwards. Lady Hildegard stands in front of him, her square jaw set in an unreadable line as she holds out a crystal glass of amber liquid. When he doesn’t reach for it immediately, she jerks it towards him, and he takes it in unsteady hands. Hildegard retreats to a chair across from him with her own drink, slumps back, and crosses her legs.

Camus stares into his drink. “Where do I go?”

Hildegarde raises her glass to her mouth. “Not off the edge of a cliff.”

“I was not going to jump,” he mumbles, unsure if he’s lying or not.

She takes a long drink of her liquor, then drapes her arms over the chair and stares at him. “What are you good at?”

“Fighting.”

“No place for most immigrants in the Knights of Zofia,” she tells him. “But we already knew you weren’t planning on staying here.”

Camus tilts the glass in his hand, watching the alcohol curve to the side.

“Those kids will be safe here,” Hildegard says. “I’ll take care of them. Clothes, tutors, all that. They’ll be comfortable, and I hope happy.”

“You are certain no war will touch them?”

Again, she takes a drink, looking almost pensive as she stares at the upper corner of the room. “I’m not in the business of making promises I can’t keep. Things with Rigel are tense. Desaix will either make things better, or much, much worse.”

He lifts his glass to his lips, though the bitter smell of alcohol makes him woozy. He drinks it anyway. Gradually, he lengthens his drink, craning his head back further until he’s drained the glass. He gasps when he’s done, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. “The inn workers said the Rigelians are dogs.”

Hildegard’s grip on her glass tightens.

“That they’re savages. That Rigel is a hellscape of carnage.” Camus puts his glass to his lips again, seeking more liquor until he realizes it’s gone. He’s heaving with panic. “They’re uncivilized brutes.”

“I suppose most Zofians would say that.” Hildegard swirls the remnants of her liquor around. “I wouldn’t. The Rigelians are hardened people. It doesn’t mean they live in stick-and-mud houses, or that they eat each other in the winter.” Her eyes narrow; she isn’t looking at him. “My father was Rigelian. I’ve been to his homeland many times. It’s not as cold as people think, and the landscapes are vibrant. There are kind people there. Just because they live by the War Father’s teachings doesn’t mean they’re the brutes many down here think they are.”

Camus puts a hand to the back of his neck and sighs, slumping until his elbows touch his knees. “Not a paradise, but not a hell.”

“It’s just easier for people to think of them as the other,” Hildegard remarks. “It makes the thought of them starving easier.” She looks at him over the rim of her glass. “You could go there. It’s a land that feels farther away than anything else. There’s always need for a sellsword. You could have no name and still survive there, so long as you can fight.”

“No name,” he mumbles into his hand. “Is it truly such a simple place?”

“Yes.” Hildegard puts down her empty glass. “Just don’t jump off of any cliffs. I would hate to see the children sad.”

“Take care of them.”

“I promise we will,” she reassures. “You can come visit. Write them letters.”

Camus blinks. He drags his hand down his face to cup his jaw. “Yuliya can be a brat. Yubello is sensitive, and he’s anxious. They pester one another, but they cannot bear to be apart. They hate the dark.”

“I understand.”

“Yuliya likes ribbons, and eating meat. Yubello likes sweets, but they upset his stomach easily.” Camus tucks his face into his hand again. “And he loves fiction.”

“I’ll provide all the ribbons and books they want.”

“And- and-” He puts his other hand to his head. “And-”

“All will be well, Sir Camus. Focus on yourself. Where you are going, how you’ll get there, what you’re going to do.” Hildegard is silent. “You’re a free man. You could make any life for yourself that you wanted.”

A free man, she says. She does not realize that he walks with his lover’s corpse upon his back, the weight of a continent lost upon his shoulders.

A free man.

* * *

* * *

Camus leaves for nowhere a week later, when the skies are crystal clear and the heat mild. Everything is sorted with Estella and Hildegard: finances for the children, mostly, along with their lodging, education plans, the like. The children look happy, color in their faces once more, even if their eyes are dim and disappointed whenever they look at him. Though they’ve given up saying it, he knows they still long for him to stay.

Estella and the twins see him off from the courtyard, where he slings his bags and supplies onto the back of an old, but sturdy, horse. He has food, elixirs and vulneraries, some money, a couple of spare outfits, and his weapons. It’s enough for a week or so, and then he’ll need to find work.

“I am sorry that this is the only horse Hil could spare you.” Estella is holding Yubello’s and Yuliya’s hands, looking quite worried. “And, Sir Camus, we’re not wanting for money. If you’d like to take more of what you brought, you may.”

“It’s for the children.” Camus tightens the straps around his food bag, shakes it atop the horse’s bag to ensure it’s held down, then gives it a pat. “I’ve no more need for my wealth.”

“Don’t you need money to buy food?” Yuliya asks.

“I shall make my coin elsewhere. That money was either from your family’s coffer, or else belongs to a dead man.”

Yubello and Yuliya give one another sidelong glances, and Yuliya mouths “dramatic” as she rolls her eyes.

“Well.” Estella looks down at the twins, then at him. “Where do you plan on going?”

“East,” Camus says. “Away from the warzone for now.”

“Hil says there’s mercenary work to be had in the east. A fine decision.” She squeezes the twins’ hands. “And- and you are certain you do not wish to stay here in Ethria? Even if you don’t enlist, there are many things to do here.”

“Camus is good at woodworking,” Yubello pipes up.

“Not for a living.” Camus crouches down in front of the children and Estella, then reaches to touch the twins’ shoulders. Their wide blue eyes search his face, and he feels his heart falling as it once more hits him that this is it. He’ll see them again whenever he comes this way, but they’re no longer in his care. He’s finished his job, as he promised Lorenz. He has saved at least this tiny piece of Grust.

“Stay,” Yuliya implores once more, her voice wobbling. “Please?”

“My princess.” Camus cups her cheek in a hand. “I must not.”

“Travel safe,” Yubello says. “And please write, so we know you’re well.”

Eyes swimming with tears, Yuliya adds, “And stay healthy. And- and settle somewhere good.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“Don’t drink too much!”

Camus stands, a wry smile on his face as he looks into their faces. They look primed to burst into tears, but they don’t. Yubello sniffs as Camus pushes his long yellow bangs from his eyes, but holds it together.

“Hil and I will care for them,” Estella assures softly. “You have our gratitude for bringing them to us.”

“You have my thanks for taking them in.” Camus turns back to the horse, grabs the reins, and then looks back to the twins. They both suck in a breath as he stares at them. He puts one foot in the stirrups, hesitates, and wets his lips so that he may speak.

“Camus.” Yuliya plucks the words right from his mouth and tells him, “Don’t forget Grust, okay?”

His heart aches. “You have my word, my lady.”

Camus mounts the horse and turns it east, but cannot stop himself from looking back as he sets off. Yubello and Yuliya are standing on the path and staring at him, no matter how far he goes, and he feels certain that they’re staring at him still, long after he’s left their new home behind.


End file.
